


The Andorian Incident

by AlphaFlyer



Series: Tom Paris Post-Endgame [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Paris learns the rules of diplomacy in 15 easy (or maybe not so easy) steps.  But can he play the game?  Paging Captain Proton ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Few Things Are Ever As They Appear

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: This story has absolutely nothing in common with the ST: Enterprise episode of the same title, except that they both have Andorians in them. (At least I assume so, not having actually seen it.) Fortunately, not much is known about the Andorians, so I am taking full advantage of my artistic license. Please don’t pepper me with details I should have known, but either overlooked or ignored …
> 
> The story fits into my own personal post-Endgame universe, in which Tom Paris does a stint as Captain Riker’s XO on the Enterprise; it’s set just after “Choices”, a couple of weeks before "The Neutral Zone" and about a year before “Responsibilities”. Reading them is not essential, although of course I’d be Very Happy if you did!
> 
> In my stories – even one as profoundly shallow as this -- I do like to examine certain questions. Here, it’s this: Ever wonder what goes into one of those Big Diplomatic Events that you see snippets of on the news? (Alas, no one like Tom Paris ever shows up at these things, and Captain Kirk just turned down a chance to become Canada’s new Governor General. Until either of them changes their mind, I write fan fiction.) A little side question is just how Tom might deal with some of his old demons when he has to let them out to play.
> 
> Finally, I’ve been trying for years to make sense of that great Bob Dylan ballad “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts”. I still haven’t, but I blame that that song, Kenny Rogers, and an inspiring exchange with a fellow author on the topic of leather jackets for some of the images dancing behind my retinas as I write.
> 
> The image used as the cover for this story belongs to [karracaz](http://karracaz.deviantart.com/karracaz), whose astonishing work can be found on "deviantart" and who kindly gave me permission to use it for this story.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns everything but the story and the characters you have never heard of. I write for fun, not profit.

****

 

 

_“A real diplomat is one who can cut his neighbour’s throat without having his neighbour notice it.”_

_Trygve Lie_

Nardik space station is as close to the Neutral Zone as one can get and still legally dock a shuttle – registered or otherwise.  It is the kind of place, owned and run by who knows what private interests, where people in Starfleet uniform walk around in groups of four and well-armed, if at all; a place where the scum of the Alpha Quadrant meets and mingles, always less than gracefully and often with deadly results. 

Political agendas, if they exist at all in a place such as this, are a distinctly mixed and highly merchantable bag, ready for sale to the highest bidder.  The market – buyers and sellers both -- include mercenaries, smugglers of people or of things, and the occasional ex-tyrant or war criminal on the run.

On the night in question, as on any night, the presumptuously named Starlight Lounge was dimly lit.  It was free from unnecessary decorative grace notes, in keeping with its patrons’ preference for shadows, dark corners and clean getaways.  The bar was a roughly welded and riveted hunk of black metal that could once have been a garbage scow.  The smoke that hung over the tables reeked of a hundred substances, most of them good for one-to-five in a Federal Rehab colony.  The fumes mingled with the pungent smell of drinks native to a dozen species, all encouraging consumers to find courage or oblivion in a bottle; traces of vomit and other unspeakable fluids glistened on the floor.

The tall, fair-haired human walked through the door of the bar as if he’d been there a thousand times before, this or other places like it.  He didn’t swagger – swaggering is for people who are trying to pretend they are something they’re not.  He had no need of that, so much was clear to those who were watching his arrival under lidded eyes. 

He’d definitely been in joints like this one before, based on the precautions he took before committing to deeper entry.  His crystal-clear sapphire eyes scanned for exits and places where weapons could be concealed or refuge taken in a fight; along the way, they took inventory of the various patrons and their manner of dress, species, state of inebriation, visible side arms and general disposition.

The hard, cynical look in those remarkable eyes told everyone looking for an easy mark that they would be out of luck here; a couple of those who had turned around at his entry, to size him up as a prospect for fleecing or assault, shrugged and went back to their drinks, his presence already dismissed and forgotten.  He spotted them easily, took note.  

He was lean but solidly muscled, and apart from a pair of Nausicaans the tallest man in the bar, one of only three or four humans.  His scuffed black leather jacket looked like it had seen hard use; he wore it over a white T-shirt that emphasized a well-defined, masculine chest and flat stomach.  A small, dull metallic chain and the outline of something that might be a pendant could just be made out underneath; people in these parts liked to keep their ID and blood type carved into a handy metal tag.  The collar of the shirt dipped just deep enough to show a few reddish curls of chest hair, as well as a blue serial number tattooed into the base of his throat, lengthwise along the jugular vein.

He’d done time. 

In this place, almost anyone could tell those marks; many bore them.  Most who did covered them up.  They couldn’t be faked, not that anyone would want to.  Why attract the Fed’s or the Fleet’s attention if you didn’t have to?  That he displayed them the way he did marked him as political, former Maquis probably; they tended to be proud of these things, wore them like a badge of honour.

Mercenary then, not smuggler.  The latter tended to hide their marks, provided they ever got out of prison early enough to display them on anything other than mottled, sagging skin.

His examination of the facility complete and his target acquired, the tall ex-con strode straight towards the female Andorian who was sitting alone at the bar, obviously waiting for someone.  She was nursing a glass of Romulan ale as blue as her skin, her side arm on the table in front of her; she was one of only a handful of women in the joint, and the only one not obviously working. 

Despite that, none of the men seemed keen to go near her.  Andorian women were many things, but easy wasn’t among them, unless they really liked someone.  This one looked, moreover, like she could use that side arm.  She was tall for an Andorian, built like a member of the Imperial Guard -- lithe and sinewy, white blonde hair cut almost boyishly short; strong hands, used to wielding a weapon or crushing a throat.  Her antennae were rotating and pointing at parts of the room in seemingly random patters that were likely anything but.  Her blue skin looked almost navy in the dim light.

She had noticed the man coming in, felt his sapphire eyes rake her body.  Her nostrils flared a little and she watched his every move like a cat, small pink tongue running across her lips in predatory anticipation.  She had a taste for humans, you could tell by the way she put one of her feet on the rung of a chair to open her stance a little, the way she pulled back her shoulders to make her breasts jut out at his approach.  The not-so-subtle invitation was echoed by her antennae, which were now starting to sway towards him. 

He noticed, and a satisfied, slightly smug smile momentarily curled his lips.

On his way to the bar the human wordlessly brushed off like so much lint a short and stubby Ferengi who, in the oblivious way of his people, was trying to glue himself to the newcomer in order to sell him some unwanted trinket or other.  The man didn’t even waste a look down at the hawker, instead staring straight over the bald, bulbous head to give the Nausicaans a curt nod of acknowledgment as he passed.

Nausicaans.  You don’t want to show them too much respect or they think you’re weak, but if you ignore them, they get pissed off; either way you end up on the floor -- dead, maimed, or worse.  Best thing is to pretend you’ve known them for a while, preferably as equals, and chances are you’ll be fine -- they’re drunk half the time and can’t remember one space station acquaintance or fellow mercenary from one day to the next.  The fact that he knew this, or else really _was_ acquainted with the two biggest killing machines in the bar, was not lost on the few remaining watchers and they too lowered their eyes.

Now the only eyes still actively tracking the human’s progress across the smoky floor were the yellowish-green ones of the Andorian female.  Her slitted pupils dilated a little as she took in his long, leather-clad legs and the lithe, athletic grace of his movements, always returning to those blue, blue eyes.  Her tongue darted out again, this time wetting her lips until they glistened.  Her mouth remained open a little, and her antennae started a sinuous, sensuous dance in his direction.

The short trip to the bar complete, the newcomer leaned up against it facing out to the room, his face half-turned towards her.  The taps from which the various libations were drawn stood sentinel between him and the proprietor, as good a protection against a sudden move from that quarter as anything.  The man wouldn’t be able to reach for him, and no publican in this region of space would risk his inventory by inviting a phaser blast.

“Synthale, Irish,” he tossed over his shoulder as he hooked his left thumb into his belt, in the process pushing his leather jacket back just far enough that the well-worn holster of a regenerative phaser became visible.  His observant eyes again took inventory of all those who drew slightly back at the sight -- perhaps rethinking some initiative or other -- and those who pursed their lips in appreciation and calculation at the sight of the expensive weapon.  One of the Nausicaans raised a furry eyebrow.

His drink in hand, he took a sip and faced the Andorian.  Blue eyes bored into yellow-green ones as he made a slow show of licking the pale foam off his lips.  Her mouth opened further under his direct, challenging gaze.

“So,” he said, his voice a husky drawl, “I hear you need a pilot.”

If his directness startled her, she didn’t show it, although a trained eye might have spotted a slight twitch in her antennae.  “What makes you think that?” she asked suspiciously, her hand none-too-subtly stroking the hilt of her side arm now.  “Maybe I have one already.”  The weapon was a classic Andorian dagger with a thickened hilt, suggesting a concealed phaser attachment.  Imperial Guard issue, judging by the crystal snowflake carved into the nob.

“I think I figured out you could use one when I stepped over this body in the corridor outside Finnegan’s Bar, and one of the guys going through his pockets said ‘Shame he’s dead.  That’ll piss off that Andorian bitch in the Lounge.  He was supposed to fly her to Nadoo IV tomorrow’.  Or words to that effect.”  He took another sip of his ale, another slow lick of the lips.  Her antennae quivered at the sight of his tongue, even as she digested the information he had just provided.

“Assuming that’s true and my … _arrangement_ really has fallen through, just why should I hire you?” she purred, stroking her weapon again, the hilt this time, taking great care that he saw her fondle the thickening nub at the end.

He chuckled mirthlessly.  “Three reasons.  One, I’m the best you’re likely to find in these parts.  Two, I’m willing and available.  Three …” and with that he reached around her waist and pulled her tight to his body, grinding her hips into his groin.  “You want me.  I can tell.”

He bent down slowly, touched her lips to his.  As his mouth opened under her questing tongue, as she clawed at his chest with her finger nails and as he felt his blood involuntarily rush to some highly inappropriate parts of his anatomy, one thought above all raced through Tom Paris’ mind, over and over:  
   
_Oh, hell.  B’Elanna’s gonna kill me._

 


	2. Don’t Rely On Your Briefing Notes

_“However beautiful the strategy, you should occasionally look at the results.”_

_Winston Churchill_

 

 

_(Three-and-a-half days earlier)_

 

“Helmsman’s log … oh crap.  Now there’s an auspicious start.  Make that _personal log, Commander Tom Paris_ , Stardate 55625.67.

It’s been a little over three weeks since I’ve taken over as XO on the USS Enterprise, and this is the first time I’ve had time to sit down and sort out some thoughts, let alone record them.

The Enterprise sure is a different proposition from Voyager.  Ten times the size, completely different layout.  Getting to know her has been a challenge and a half; yesterday was the first day that I actually managed to remember that Sickbay here is on Deck 12, not 5.  At least I’ve stopped getting lost on the way to our quarters -- a problem Miral never seemed to have somehow, and she’s just a toddler!

I’m finally getting a handle on organizing crew rotations, reporting schedules, and other admin stuff.  My respect for Chakotay has grown exponentially.  No wonder he was so heavily into meditation. 

But I have some extremely competent department heads to take some of the load, and that helps.  Harry is of course his usual stellar self at Ops, although he’s a bit distracted at times now that Libby is pregnant.  He’s got my sympathies.  Those hormones are Hell, don’t I know it. 

Our Tactical Officer, Jorak, is a Tuvok clone except for his skin colour, Vulcan to a tee.  Haven’t seen him in battle, but the sims we’ve been running together have been pretty impressive.  Oh, and I managed to talk Riker into getting Mike Ayala onboard as Jorak’s second, just before we left on this mission.  Mike still hasn’t said more than two words to me in over eight years, but the speed with which he said ‘yes’ to the offer probably means it’s not personal.  I think.

The woman in charge of Astrometrics is no Seven but pretty sharp, and dry as a bone.  Must come with keeping your head in stellar phenomena all day.  The day Petra Cran cracks a joke or turns up in Sandrine’s I’ll buy a round.  The jury is out on O’Reilly, who seems to freeze up whenever I get close to the conn.  Why would he be scared of me?  I don’t get it.  He seems competent enough from what I’ve seen.

Dr. Crusher is, of course, in a class by herself.  If B’Elanna could only find a way to graft _her_ bedside manner onto the Doc’s …  She lets me play in sickbay occasionally and I have a feeling I can learn as much from her as I ever did from our EMH.  I absolutely adore that woman, although for some odd reason I miss him.  Go figure.

And Deanna Troi.  What can I say?  I liked her the second I clapped eyes on her that evening in New Orleans.  I had no idea having a counselor on board could make so much difference -- I have a feeling I’d have gotten into a lot less trouble in the DQ if she’d been around, and maybe proposed to Bee a couple years sooner.  I’m even toying with the idea of letting her try and exorcise some of my old demons …   Nah, probably not.  Sleeping dogs, and all that.

In the meantime, Deanna and Bee are getting pretty chummy.  Wouldn’t have picked a half-Klingon and a half-Betazoid for buddy material, but maybe their human halves are a match?  Otherwise, I’d have to suspect the rumours about Troi and Picard’s former security chief are true …  Anyway, the Captain and I have noticed whenever our wives huddle in Ten Forward, we each get handed a list of Things We Need To Improve On.  So he and I have started hanging out in self-defense.  Will shoots a decent game of pool, although he’s not quite up to my standards.  But he’s a far better poker player than I am, so we’re taking turns teaching each other what we know.  Our wives are less than thrilled.  Ha.

We’re in a pretty dull part of space right now, so whenever I have a free moment I try memorizing the names of the crew, who they are, where they’re from, that sort of thing.  Will thinks I’m nuts, but I figure when you expect people to follow your orders and those orders can get them killed, the least you owe them is the courtesy of knowing who they are, no?

B’Elanna’s been having a blast getting to know her new engines.  I think what she likes best is that when she needs to fix something, she has the tools and the energy reserves to get it done.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so relaxed at the end of a full shift.  She’s in the shower and can’t hear me, so I’ll just say that the lack of tension on her part, plus having two doors between our bedroom and Miral’s, has been … _very nice._

As for the munchkin, she loves the nursery, and having Libby in charge gives her a familiar face to glom onto when Bee and I are on shift, which is great. 

Actually I should go check up on her.  Computer, pause log.

Computer, resume recording.  Okay, I’m back.  I was right; she’d kicked off her blanket again.  Guess that Klingons-hate-the-cold thing doesn’t translate into instinctive sleep behaviour.  Gods, she’s cute when she’s asleep.  Looks just like B’Elanna.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  Right now we’re headed for the moon of Andor on a diplomatic mission, of all things.  Yeah, I know.  Those suck.  Are First Officers allowed to say that?  Don’t care.  They _do_.

Apparently the Andorian Emperor has been having some kind of political meltdown the last couple of years, and so he’s throwing a major party to which all members of the Federation simply _must_ send a representative to show political support, provide photo ops and all that jazz.  And no, it’s not a wedding, which is what you normally get when royals feel the need to assert their ongoing relevance. 

Instead, it’s some kind of official presentation of the Imperial Successor.  I’m not sure whether the idea is to let the populace see that current management won’t stick around for much longer so an immediate revolution isn’t worth it, or to show that the family has enough bench strength to last forever so don’t bother trying.  Anyway, whatever, it’s this big ‘coming out’ party for the Imperial Princess and since we’re talking about the future Head of State of a founding member of the Federation, it behooves the Federation itself to turn up.

Why the Enterprise, and why didn’t we bring any politicians or even just some run-of-the-mill diplomats with us?  Well, the Andorians pretend to be a pretty militaristic lot, despite having a bureaucracy that would make the Hierarchy drool.  Civilians just don’t impress them, so it was a no-brainer to send a Fleet ship.  They want rank, so it had to be at least a Captain.  _And_ they go for size, which is where Riker comes in.  That and the fact we’re the flagship made the Andorian ambassador to the Federation very, very happy.  He’d been lobbying for the Enterprise for weeks, and his success probably extended his posting by a year.

The problem is, Riker is insisting that I go with him to this blasted thing.  I tried to make the old argument at morning briefing about how you shouldn’t put all your senior officers in the same shuttlecraft, but Riker just glared at me and said ‘I know what you’re trying to sell, Paris, and I ain’t buying.  You’re coming with me, and that’s final.’  And then he bared those fangs of his.  That guy can be seriously scary when he grins, especially when it’s at you.

B’Elanna and Harry just laughed.  _Evilly._   My only consolation is that they’re stuck on the ship for six days with absolutely nothing to do.  I hope at least to get to see something while I’m down there; those ice caves are supposed to be quite spectacular.  But with my luck we’ll be lurching from one function to the other and no free time.  Lord knows though why Will wants to go down there five days ahead of schedule.

So here I sit, dress uniform packed – hope it doesn’t get too squished in the duffle – waiting for Diplomatic Doom.  Or is it Deliverance?  Is there a difference?

At least I get to pilot the Flyer down to Andor.  With so many ships scheduled to come there this week, we were directed to hold orbit around the ninth planet in the system, and that puts us way out of transporter range.  Thank Kahless for small mercies.

End log -- Paris out.”

…

 

“Recording your final lucid, gin-and-tonic free moments for posterity?”  B’Elanna’s acerbic voice came from the shower.  “Hope there’s nothing in there about pizza crusts.” 

Tom snorted.  “You weren’t supposed to listen to that tape unless I was actually dead!” he griped, for the umpteenth time.  “And I wouldn’t have found it particularly funny then, either,” his loving wife informed him, also for the umpteenth time.  “And no, I would _not_ have seen the deeply hidden poetry in your words, those understated _volumes_ of meaning.”

B’Elanna would never let him live the death message he’d recorded on the Flyer down, that much was clear.  She’d found it after that incident on Quarra, when she was trying to get _her_ memory back by listening to _his_ personal logs.  Tom still hadn’t quite figured out how that was supposed to have worked; it had to be a girl thing.  But he had since recorded a much better farewell, directed at both her and Miral; as he suspected, it was a lot easier to be eloquent when you weren’t actually going to die in ten minutes.

“So what _were_ you recording then?” 

“Oh, just a few notes to self on the fine art of diplomacy,” he responded diffidently.  “Trying to get myself in the mood for this mission.”

“And is it working?”

“That would be stretching the truth.  I hate this stuff, Bee.  I’d much rather hang out in a smoky bar somewhere, keeping the lowlife at bay.”

B’Elanna looked at her husband, walked across the room and sat herself down in his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck, damp towel starting to slip a little.  “Isn’t diplomacy essentially the same thing, with a better class of drink?”  She began to nuzzle his neck before continuing.  “But don’t get nervous -- you’ll do fine.  You’re practically royalty yourself, Mr. _Paris_.  You’ll fit right in down there.”

He wound his fingers in her hair and pulled her head up for a kiss.  “You still haven’t forgiven my family our little hilltop mansion, have you?”  “Nope, and I never will, Thomas Eugene the Seventeenth or whatever number you are.” 

He quieted his mate with his mouth and tongue.  He could never get enough of that sweet, spicy taste….  Tom started to run his hands down her back and back up her front, eliciting a happy sigh and slightly faster breathing on his wife’s part.  He barely had the time to think that now would probably be the time his comm badge would go off, when it did.

“Riker to Paris.  You ready to go?” 

“Care to rephrase that Captain?  No, never mind, sir.  Meet you in Shuttle Bay Two in five minutes.”

He turned his attention back to B’Elanna, who was looking at him with a mixture of regret and amusement as she gathered the towel back around her slim form.  “Go get ‘em, hotshot,” she said.  “Don’t eat too many canapés, come back in one piece, and not much fatter than you are now.” 

“Thanks, I love you too.  And make sure you hug the munchkin for me lots while I’m gone, ok?”

One more kiss, and he was out the door, cold-weather parka and duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

 

.....

 

“You want to do some of the flying, Captain?”  Tom didn’t really feel like surrendering the Flyer’s helm, but basic courtesy required that he ask; after all, Riker used to be a pretty decent pilot himself.  Luckily, the Captain shook his head, somewhat regretfully.

“No thanks.  I’d love to, but that bizarre push-button console of yours …  Ye gods.  I have absolutely no idea why Starfleet didn’t ask to have regular ones put in when they ordered these things.”

Tom chuckled.  “Couldn’t.  Holistic design – all or nothing.  It’s actually a lot more responsive than the touch panels.  Besides, it keeps the riff raff from trying to fly expensive Starfleet hardware.”  He realized what he’d just said, and blanched a little.  “Oh _oops_.  Sorry, Captain.  No offence meant …”

Riker guffawed.  “None taken.  Guess I deserved that for maligning your baby.”  He watched in silence as Tom delicately maneuvered the Flyer out of the shuttle bay and through the force field. 

“You’re probably wondering why we’re going to Andor almost a week ahead of the actual ceremony, Tom.”

Tom reluctantly bit back any dozen snarky remarks, ranging from _Oh no, sir, I always wanted to spend a week on an ice floe_ , to _I gave up wondering about Starfleet instructions a decade ago_.  But this was his Captain, and they were still establishing their working relationship.  So all he said was, “No shit.”

Riker rummaged through his bag for the PADD containing his briefing notes, major official messages and a speech or two.  “Well, the truth is – and I couldn’t say this in the staff briefing, need to know only  – that Starfleet is a bit worried about what’s been happening on Andor lately, and we’re supposed to carry out a recce.”

Tom stared at him in disbelief.  “Why us?  Doesn’t the Federation have, like, official spies for that sort of thing?” 

“You mean the guys who go around bugging offices, intercepting transmissions, interviewing secret contacts, and then don’t share any of the intel they get with Starfleet because doing so would _compromise their sources_ and they’d never get anything _useful_ again?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’ is right.  We’re doing this for Nacheyev, not for the Council.  What she wants to know is where the political friction between the Palace and the Chancellor’s Office originated, and whether it might affect Andoria’s position in the Federation.  They were pretty listless during the Dominion war, the one you missed, and we can’t allow them to let their commitment slip any further.  Right now they seem more interested in building up their own planetary defence force than in cooperating with Starfleet.“

“Interesting.  Sure -- I’ll keep my ear to the ground while we’re there.”

“Please do, although I should caution you:  I doubt anyone of serious consequence will talk to you, you being a ‘mere Commander’.  On the Andorian scale of relevance, that barely registers.  They stop counting at Captain, or so I’m told.  No offence."

Tom grinned.  He probably deserved that.  “None taken, _Captain, sir_.  I’ll just talk to the riffraff then.  They often have a better idea of what’s going on anyway.  But why take me _,_ exactly?  I’m sure Deanna would have been happy to bask in the glamour and the glory of Federation summitry and could suss out the local sentiments with far more authority than I could.  Maybe she’d even get to wear a nice dress?” 

Riker gave him a calculating look.  “Well, in order to confirm my own importance I’m supposed to have an _aide de camp_ , who simply must be the highest ranking officer on the ship.  Or something.  Wives apparently don’t count.  Besides, Deanna sometimes has a hard time keeping a straight face when some stuffed shirt tries to put the make on her during a reception, as they inevitably do.  Also, I gather you grew up with this type of function and might not embarrass us too much.”

“Gee, thanks, sir.  I’ll try my best …” 

“Besides, the next few days are going to be excruciatingly boring, and I thought we could keep each other sane with the occasional poker game in the evening.  I brought a deck.”

Tom grinned.  “Now _that’s_ reasoning I can relate to.  Glad you didn’t mention it to B’Elanna.”  He considered for a moment.  “But isn’t playing poker with two people kind of boring?  Now if we’d brought along some token security dudes we could have played a decent seven card stud _and_ been safe against marauding Andorians.”  He let the thought dangle and focused on his instruments, given the intensifying traffic.

Half an hour later, they were approaching orbit around Andor, most of the flight having passed in silence with Riker studying his briefing notes.  Finally, he lowered his PADD in frustration.

“This is such crap.  I don’t need to know about Andoria’s Gross Domestic Product, main exports and constitutional system.  I need … oh, I don’t know.  _Useful_ stuff.  How do they relate to each other?  Which gestures mean ‘come have some dinner’, and which ‘I’m gonna slit your throat’?”  He threw the PADD over his head where it clattered against a wall, making Tom wince in sympathy for his poor innocent shuttle.

“Do you know anything about Andorian politics, Tom, that’ll make our lives easier over the next few days?  The only stuff I know about them is not, shall we say, useful for diplomatic functions where I represent the Federation.”

Tom responded cautiously.  “I wrote a paper about them at the Academy, ‘Federation Politics 101’.  Sikorski.” 

“Trust you aced the thing?”

Tom chuckled.  “You kidding?  I got a C minus.  The People’s Mark.”  Riker threw him a surprised glance.  “A C minus?  This from the guy who got the highest scores in Advanced Strategic and Tactical Command since, what, the great James Tiberius himself?"

Tom sighed, as he banked the Flyer around the rings of the gas giant around which the icy moon of Andor circled in a slightly eccentric orbit.  “Let’s just say, I didn’t care so much in those days.  I had … other objectives.  Besides, I couldn’t stand Sikorski.”  
   
It was Riker’s turn to chuckle.  “Join the club.  We called him Sick Snoreski.  Managed to make the Khitamer massacre sound like a debate on non-tariff barriers to trade.  What’d he do to you?”  
   
“He thought I was off topic.  I decided the most interesting aspect of Andorian politics was the Ushaan, so I wrote on that.”  
   
“The Ushaan?”    
   
“The great Andorian blood feud.  They have them between clans, between members of the same family, sometimes even between married partners.”  Tom snorted.  “Remind me not to tell B’Elanna about that one.  Anyway, for folks that live under a hundred metres of ice they’re pretty hot-tempered.  Whenever one of them feels hard done by, they call a blood feud against the person they think did the doing.  Goes back and forth after that.  There’s also a rare offshoot, where they call in a debt owed, on pain of death and dishonour if refused, but that doesn’t happen very often. 

“The Ushaan used to be fought to the death, mostly in public, with some form of lethal ice pick.  The Andorian Government had to officially outlaw it in order to join the Federation, but it still goes on behind the scenes, although most of the time they tend to go after each other with slightly more subtle means.  Of course that makes it hard to tell when it’s over; dead bodies and ice picks, it’s easier to keep score.  All in all, a perfect scenario for politics, which is why I thought it would make a good paper.”

Tom stopped as Riker alerted ground control to the imminent landing of the shuttle, and initiated touchdown protocols.  But the Captain, his curiosity tweaked, wasn’t ready to give up on the topic quite yet, besides he didn’t often have the chance to reminisce about the Academy.

“  And Sikorski gave you a C minus for being off topic?  The man was a serious hardass, but that seems kind of harsh.  Not to mention even I can see how the feud thing could be relevant to politics.”  

Tom snapped the landing struts into place and turned at Riker ruefully.  “Yeah, he actually came ‘round to some extent once he read it.  It was a pretty good piece in the end, if I say so myself; I sort of almost cared and put a fair bit of effort into the research.  He said he’d have given me a much higher grade, except I decided at the last minute to delete all the footnotes and references.”  
   
Riker shook his head in disbelief.  “Now why the hell would you do that?  Especially if you’d already done the work?”  

Tom snorted.  “If I remember correctly, I wanted to piss off my father, because he made me take that course and _expected_ me to excel.  Said it was, and I quote, ‘an _absolute_ _requirement_ for command track, son’.”    
   
Riker rose out of his seat.  Almost show time.  “And he may just about to be proven right.  You must have been one screwed up kid back then, Paris.” 

Tom sighed as he encoded the Flyer’s security system.  “Captain, you have _no_ idea.”

Sensors confirmed that the outside temperature was a balmy -32 degrees Celsius, and they bundled up in their enviro-parkas before grabbing their kit bags.  Tom gave one more glance around the cabin, when something occurred to him. 

“So Will, I gave you everything I know, plus a spot of self-analysis.  Your turn.  What was the stuff _you_ learned?  Sounded … interesting.”

Riker stopped in his tracks and looked at his Number One with just a tinge of embarrassment.  “Promise not to tell Deanna?” 

“Oh?  Sure, I promise, Captain, sir.”  Tom couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face in anticipation of what was obviously a not-so-professional tidbit of information.

Riker broke into a slow smile, his eyes far away, full of reminiscences that made them sparkle just a little bit.  “Well, when Andorian women are _interested_ in you, their antennae … start waving -- in your direction.  Like this.”  He made a movement with his index and middle finger, straight at Tom.

“They have absolutely no control over it.  Trust me on this, Tom – the antennae _never_ lie.  And boy, when they’re keen, they’re _really_ keen.“  The Captain’s smile turned into the wolfish grin that Tom had learned rarely bode well, and his eyes assumed a positively devilish glint. 

“And one more thing, Tom, something you should definitely keep in mind.  Those Andorian women – they have a _serious_ thing about blue eyes.”


	3. Be Kind to the Support Staff

_“To say nothing, especially when speaking, is half the art of diplomacy.”_

_Will Durant_

 

Even though it was late spring on Andor, a freezing gale-force wind carrying ice pellets the size of frozen peas struck the disembarking officers as soon as they opened the Flyer’s main hatch.  Tom sputtered a little under the sudden onslaught, eliciting a malicious grin and a snort from Riker.

“Ah, what a lovely, mild spring breeze,” he said.  “Just like home.  You Californians are such a bunch of wimps.”  
   
Tom gave his captain a baleful look.  “I’m not even dignifying that with a response,” he said, teeth chattering slightly.  “The only thing I will say is that unlike the quaint and simple folk of Alaska, at least the Andorians had the common sense to move all their living arrangements indoors and underground over a thousand years ago.”  He wiped a drop off his nose.  “Remind me again why we’re not beaming directly into the Palace?” 

Riker laughed.  “Protocol, Commander, Andorian protocol.”

Their conversation was cut short by the appearance, on the tarmac where the Flyer had been directed to land, of what appeared to be a small reception committee.  Tom’s fervent hope that whatever welcoming speeches they would be forced to endure would happen indoors was dashed almost immediately, as one of the Andorians pulled out a PADD and bowed.  He proceeded to intone, in a formal and stentorious drone, “Welcome to Andoria, Captain William Thomas Riker of the USS Enterprise ...”

Tom stopped listening as soon as it became obvious that he wasn’t being included in the welcome.  In fact, no one even so much as spared him a glance; he might as well not have existed at all.  Feeling righteously absolved of any need to pay attention to the speech, he pulled the hood of his parka over his ears and moved the flaps forward over his chin to keep out the worst of the wind and ice.  Courtesy, he decided, cut both ways, and there was no point in freezing one’s ears off in pursuit of heroic unilateralism.  

Tom did, however, note with no small degree of satisfaction that his Captain’s face and ears were taking on a distinctly red colour as he stood there feigning a deep appreciation of the official’s blissful recalling of the “important relationship between Glorious Andoria and the Great United Federation of Planets”.  
   
The shuttle port was small but well-equipped, clearly one of a number of temporary facilities set up for the expected flood of official visitors.  In the absence of more pressing things to hold his attention, Tom took the opportunity to scan its security features.  He had, as per regular procedure, secured the Flyer with his command codes, in addition to keeping the multiphasic shielding in place at maintenance level in order to prevent both ice build-up and casual physical tampering, and so was confident that no one could simply take possession and fly her away.  But any security precautions the locals had seen fit to take in addition to his own would be of interest, both in the event of external threats and in case he and the Captain needed to make a quick getaway.  

Tom knew, rationally, that in peaceful Andoria the chances of either eventuality were slim to nil, but seven years in the Delta Quadrant and a year at the James T. Kirk Centre for Advanced Tactical and Strategic Command had taught him never to discount the unexpected.  If that made him paranoid, so be it.  He knew that his old friend Tuvok, at least, would approve.

The port’s perimeter was demarked by a series of posts that supported a force field so crude it was visible to the naked eye.  Chickenshit stuff, Tom contemptuously determined, that could be taken out with a single judiciously placed phaser blast.  He detected no evidence of security guards or other overt measures; presumably the Andorians relied on the lousy weather to keep thieves, terrorists and snap-happy tourists at bay.

The speech appeared to be winding down, and Tom turned his attention back to matters at hand, noticing with clinical interest that the outer edges of Riker’s ears had begun to turn from red to white.  Finally, their loquacious host made an inviting hand gesture, pointing them towards a transporter that would take them to their destination, the Imperial Guesthouse on the lowest level of the underground capital. 

“So, Captain,” he remarked casually as they were climbing on the pad.  “Do Alaskans believe in dermal regenerators as a cure for frostbite?  We wimpy Californians _have_ been known to pack one on occasion.”

The process of demolecuralization deprived Riker of the opportunity to respond, although it did not _quite_ succeed in stopping a smug grin from forming on his First Officer’s face.

 

…

 

By the afternoon of the first day, it was clear to Tom Paris that his career as the junior diplomatic envoy for the Federation was destined to be as short as it was inglorious.  The Andorians had put together a program of activities designed to impress rather than entertain, although impress them with what, Tom was at a loss to understand.  But much more to the point, the program revolved almost entirely around the Captain.

Now Tom would have been perfectly happy to be ignored by Andorian Imperial protocol, but what had him seething was the ostentatious way in which the Andorians went about doing it.  Invitations were grandiosely extended to “The Distinguished Delegation of the United Federation of Planets” as a whole, but whenever he and Will Riker dutifully reported to where they had both been summoned, it would turn out that meetings were at “Head of Delegation level,” or haughtily characterized as “one-on-one” discourses.  Oddly, these alleged numeric restrictions did not seem to apply to their dedicated Andorian liaison officer, who clung to Riker like a limpet and seemed to be deemed to be included in all the proceedings regardless of seemingly contradictory pronouncements.

At a round table discussion on the Future of Andoria In The Federation, the lowly Commander found himself relegated to the back row, where there was neither a table to put down his elbows or his NotePADD, nor access to the otherwise ubiquitous bottled water to keep himself hydrated and marginally occupied.  Only a surplus of good breeding and conscientiousness of what he represented kept Tom from dozing off in the overheated room.

The frustrated Commander’s latest foray into demonstrative irrelevance had come at the hands of the Chancellor’s Office.  The People’s Palace was a cavernous building designed to impress with its vast open spaces and endless, echoing hallways, if not its attention to basic human needs such as accessible lavatories, comfortable places to sit or access to coffee.  The Chancellor’s office itself was as pompous and over-decorated as its main resident.

A member of Andoria’s second family, Erdon Erdilev was the highest-ranking public servant in the Imperium.  He had been selected for political office at a young age, had risen quickly and just as quickly acquired a sense of self-importance proportionate to his physical girth and the number of chains hanging from his neck.  Riker had cast an apologetic glance at Tom over his shoulder as he was being ushered into the Chancellor’s office, accompanied only by the ubiquitous protocol officer, but by now the scheduled ten-minute courtesy call had extended well past half an hour. 

Riker’s hapless _aide de camp_ had thus been left to cool his heels on an uncomfortable couch in the cavernous, echoing anteroom to the Chancellor’s office, with little to do but polish his comm badge.  Which he had done several times, in the vain hope he might somehow, miraculously, set off a chirp from B’Elanna, despite the distance that separated them.  Failing again in this futile pursuit, Tom started to make a mental list of factors to determine which kind of tedium was more likely to induce him to slit his wrists:  staring at huge and ornate wall paintings of Early Empire battle scenes whose artistic merit was dwarfed by the impressive genitalia displayed by the giant snowcats the warriors were riding, or having to listen to yet another Andorian politician drone on about the sincerity of the Imperium’s commitment to the Federation. 

A sound disturbed his dark musings, and Tom looked up to find a stocky, middle-aged Andorian woman bustling into the room.  She was searching for something, and when she spotted a PADD on the credenza she crossed the floor to retrieve it.  Tom had seen her briefly in the Chancellor’s outer suite of offices, half-hidden behind a console on her desk.  Her deferential demeanour marked her as an assistant of some description. 

Partly because he spotted a fellow member of The Downtrodden and partly because he was in dire need of a diversion -- any diversion -- Tom decided to give her his sunniest, extra-bright, super-nova, let’s-get-to-know-each-other smile.  

“Good morning,” he said jauntily.  “Or is it afternoon already?  So hard to tell when you’re a thousand feet underground, isn’t it?” 

The woman looked at him suspiciously.  She was obviously not used to being spoken to by visitors to the Chancellor’s inner sanctum, even those relegated to pacing the floor outside.  When she lifted her eyes to his she did to timidly, with the utmost deference. 

And let out a gasp, dropping her PADD on the floor with a loud clatter. 

Her mouth pursed into a little, silent “Oh!” and her blue skin took on a decidedly ultra-marine tone.  The antennae on her forehead commenced a graceful little dance in Tom’s direction – the only part of her body seemingly capable of movement just then.  Non-plussed, Tom looked around to see what might have startled her into this near-catatonic state, but in the absence of anything more threatening than an over-sized plant he came to the reluctant conclusion that it was himself.

“You okay?” he asked, in his most dulcet, comforting, Daddy-picking-up-a-crying-toddler tone.  She swallowed a few times, unable to tear her gaze from his face.  Finally, she found her voice.  “Your eyes ..” she gasped.  “They are so … so …”  She unconsciously licked her lips, her tiny blue-tipped tongue darting in and out of her mouth in the blink of an eye.

Understanding dawned on Tom Paris.  What was it that Riker had said about Andorian women?  _Not_ a development he was interested in encouraging.  “Blue?” he supplied helpfully.  “Yeah, that they are.  Or so _my wife_ tells me.  Our _daughter_ has them too.” 

Tom took a little guilty satisfaction in watching her antennae droop at the information he had just volunteered, but his innate friendliness quickly won out.  There was no point in being mean to someone who looked like she had spent most of her life crushed at the bottom of a very tall totem pole.  In fact, he felt a certain kinship with her, alone and ignored out here in the echoing halls of power. 

He favoured the woman with another of his blinding smiles.  “You must be the Chancellor’s … executive assistant?”  “Oh no, sir,” she hastily assured him.  “I’m just a secretary, sir.” 

Tom melted.  Visions of his father’s long-time, long-suffering but fiercely loyal assistant came to him:  Nicole, the woman who always had gummy bears in her drawer for him and his sisters when they were little, and an encouraging word for him when he was older.  She had written to him regularly while he was at Auckland; short, inconsequential but sustaining notes he suspected his father never knew anything about.  After his return from seven years in the Delta Quadrant, she had presented him and B’Elanna with a hand-made quilt for Miral that hung on the wall of her room on the Enterprise.  The Andorian before him could have been Nicole’s karmic twin, feelers and all.

He began to smile even more sweetly.  There was nothing, but _nothing,_ that crossed his father’s desk that was not first seen, assessed and vetted by Nicole.  She could recite contemporaneous fleet movements for several sectors, had the latest promotion lists memorized days before they became public, and was privy to the most politically compromising and salacious gossip in Starfleet.  And if she liked you – and she liked Tom, a lot – and knew you had the requisite security clearance, she would be more than happy to share.  For the gossip, you didn’t even require a clearance.

And you ignored her at your peril, as at least two admirals and a number of senior officers had found out too late. 

“Oh no,” Tom said brightly, as he bent down to pick up her dropped PADD.  “ _Never_ say you’re ‘just a secretary’.  My Dad always said that without a good secretary, everything breaks down.  As a matter of fact, his secretary, Nicole …”

 

…..

 

By the time Will Riker finally emerged from the stuffy confines of the Chancellor’s inner sanctum and the door had closed again behind the Great Man, Commander Thomas Eugene Paris and Miss Edora Thaar were sitting cozily side by side on the red velour couch, chatting and giggling over some shared observation or other.

The glare emanating from the protocol officer practically screamed ‘improper fraternization’.  Tom gave him a studiedly blank look and gracefully rose to his feet.  He took Edora’s hand in his and, with his most boyish smile and an “Allow me – ancient Earth tradition,” raised her fingertips to his lips before Riker’s disbelieving eyes. 

She shook her head and playfully swatted him on the arm.  “Oh, you’re such a scoundrel, Tom Paris,” she twittered coyly.  “I _so_ enjoyed meeting you.”  “The pleasure was all mine,” Tom grinned, and with a great show of reluctance joined his Captain and left.

Riker was clearly in a foul mood.  “Glad one of us had fun,” he growled as they were ushered along one of the endless underground walkways by their liaison officer, a middle-aged and distinctly paunchy individual whose breath was already becoming labored under the pace his charges were setting in their haste to put this particular locale behind them.  Tored Paak was as obsequious as he was obnoxious, and both officers had taken an instant and vehement dislike to the man.

“I think we can take it from here, Mr. Paak, thanks.  No more appointments tonight; we’ll just head for an early dinner and back to our accommodations.”  Riker’s tone left no doubt that this was a dismissal. 

After making a show of demurring and wishing to ensure their continued well-being and provide instruction and entertainment even through their free time, Paak finally bowed his head in acceptance and left, his antennae waving their disapproval.  His bow was carefully choreographed so as to leave little doubt that it did not include Tom Paris, a man of evidently so little consequence that he would speak to the office help.

“Wonder what he’s going to report to his boss now,” Tom mused.  “That William Thomas Riker is an insufferable Philistine without manners or appreciation for Andorian hospitality?  Or that the non-entity with him has the unmitigated gall to consort with the office low-life?”

“You know what, Tom, I honestly don’t care.  All I need is a stiff drink,” Riker sighed. He rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his greying, but still thick hair.  “This has got to have been the most excruciating, what was it, _two hours_ of my life _ever_.”

He pointed to a restaurant that advertised galactic fusion cuisine and looked clean and well-lit; chances were good they’d find something edible there.  “Look okay to you?” 

Tom shrugged diffidently.  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly voice an opinion on such a weighty matter.  I’m just a lowly Commander.  Sir.”

Riker gave him a baleful look.  “Fine, Tom, you made your point.  I’m _sorry_.  If I’d known it would be this bad I would have come by myself, Captain’s sacrifice.  No need to have both of us dying of boredom.”

Tom considered making his Captain feel guilty a little longer, but Riker’s remorse seemed genuine and so he decided to cut him a little slack.  “Don’t worry about it, Will.  I’ll survive, and my ego probably will too.” 

They entered the restaurant and were shown to a table in a quiet corner by a young Andorian woman who activated the menu screens as soon as they sat down.  Tom picked up the threat of their conversation as they each punched in their choices. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever get that ‘level’ thing diplomats seem to get so excited about.  Only wanting to talk to the Head Cheese – no offence – or measuring the precise depth of a planet’s love or displeasure by the rank of the person who’s delivering the message, as opposed to by its content.” 

Riker gave him a thoughtful glance.  “And you can speak absolute volumes by what you wear and when, too.  You know the whole thing’s just a game, don’t you?  You gotta play by the rules, or people will take offence when they weren’t actually supposed to.”

Tom was beginning to warm up to the topic now.  “Sure, fine, a game it is.  But you know, in the card games I used to play when I was a kid, everybody always oohs and ahs whenever an ace gets played, even though you can’t win unless you collect the most tricks, for which purpose the Jack of Hearts counts just as much.  If not more, because a lot of people don’t pay attention to the lower cards and don’t see ‘em coming.” 

Riker chuckled.  “Yeah, but in politics and diplomacy, it’s always the Ace of Spades that gets the credit, the Federation Peace Prize and the honorary doctorate.  That’s just the way it is.” 

“And you’re welcome to it all, frankly.  I guess when it comes right down to it, I’m happier being the Jack of Hearts any day.” 

Riker laughed.  “And judging by the adoring gaze of that lady you were chatting up, you’re damn good at it, too.”

Their drinks order arrived and, over a glass of Kitarian merlot, Riker summarized the riveting things he had learned:  Andoria remained a committed member of the Federation; the Imperial Family was beloved by its people and ruled in harmony with both the natural environment and its political opponents; there were no threats to the succession; and Andoria was delighted to welcome representatives from all sectors of the Great Federation over the coming days.

Tom was stunned.  “And that took _two hours_?”  Riker sighed and took a deep sip of his wine, draining the glass.  He motioned the waitress for another.  “Each point was made repeatedly and explored in great depth, with many cogent factual examples.  But actually, he asked me a lot of questions too.  About the Enterprise, the state of the Fleet’s reconstruction, that sort of thing.”

Tom perked up at that, a look of concern crossing his face.  “He wanted tactical information?  Why?  I trust you didn’t give it to him?”  Riker shrugged.  “He certainly has the clearance.  Andoria is a member of the Federation, and he’s the Chancellor.  I had the sense that he’s on the side of the ones that want to bring it more back into the fold.  Didn’t realize you were that paranoid, Tom.”

Tom shook his head.  If there had been one lesson his father had drilled into him from the time he came back from the Cardassian war, it was that you _never_ divulged tactical information to an outsider, no matter how much of a friend your partner seemed to be.  Seven years in the Delta Quadrant, with its countless opportunities for alien possession, scams or outright deviousness had only reinforced the lesson.  Oh well, he had made his point; the judgment call hadn’t been his to make.

“You’d think a Chancellor would be too busy for a two-hour chat.  But it’s probably like Edora says …” 

“Edora?”  Riker cocked an eyebrow.

“Edora Thaar.  Chancellor Erdilev’s junior secretary,” Tom supplied helpfully.  “Lady I was talking to.  Junior in rank, rather than age or experience.  She thinks Erdilev’s in shit with the Emperor over some transgression or other, and just hanging on to his job now.  Meetings with foreign dignitaries make him look relevant.  The easy money says he’s toast within the month, possibly right after the ceremony.”

“Really.”  Riker looked at his First Officer.  “What else did you learn from this … junior secretary of yours?  Apart from the fact that she obviously found your baby blues swooningly handsome?”  Tom grinned a little sheepishly.  “Noticed the feelers, did you?  Yeah, she warmed up quite nicely.  Very chatty.  All sorts of interesting things to say.”

Their food arrived and they spent a few minutes trying a number of the different mezze-like dishes.  “Not bad,” Tom said between mouthfuls, savouring each morsel. 

“Interesting things?  Like what?”  Riker prompted him again, injecting just a bit of menace into his voice.  Even though his bad mood was dissipating, he knew he was being played now, and was having none of it.

Tom grinned at him insouciantly.  “You know you deserve to suffer just a little, don’t you, Will?  Okay, fine.  Here it is, in a nutshell.  The Chancellor’s family is sort of the Number Two clan in Andoria, behind the Emperor’s.  The job tends to move around between the main families every few decades or so, to keep them all satisfied and in line.  They seem to think it should be their turn again soon, but now there are these allegations of corruption.  The family is starting to circle the wagons around their Number One guy.  No one’s been able to prove anything against Erdilev though, which is why he’s still in office.  Although Edora says that all they really need to do is look at his travel expenses for the last few years.  Apparently he’s on the road a lot; lots of opportunities to cook the books and make lucrative deals on the side.”

Tom warmed up to his recitation, but paused to take another sip of wine.  “But here’s the thing.  Apparently Erdilev got into his present job when the Emperor’s Chief of Staff discovered that Erdilev’s predecessor was a Changeling.  Edora was a little hazy on the details as to how he figured it out.” 

Riker’s eyebrows shot up at that.  “ _What_??”

“Yeah, I though you’d find that interesting.  If it’s true, it would explain a lot about their listlessness during the war, wouldn’t it?” 

Riker was incredulous.  If this was true and had been known back at Starfleet Command, it should have been included in his briefing notes.  He wasn’t sure which would be worse – that his briefers could be ignorant of such a momentous fact, or that they would keep the knowledge from him. 

“And you … she… there’s proof of that?” 

Tom grinned even more broadly, if that was possible.  “Yep.  When they finally got to the guy, he was in his office.  The same one you were just … entertained in.  Apparently he resisted arrest and was killed.  Or something.  The Emperor decreed that it should be kept quiet, to avoid a lot of second-guessing of the government’s decisions during the guy’s time in power, and so only the inner circle ever heard about it.  Poor Edora got personally tasked with cleaning up the mess.”

Tom took another sip of his wine.  “They had taken away the body so she never got to see it, but – and this is where it gets _really_ good -- she _loves_ detective holonovels, and since this was her first ever real crime scene, she took a bit of leftover tissue as a souvenir.”  He paused dramatically.  “She let me run my tricorder over it.  I’ve got the DNA sequence.”

“I don’t believe this.  How many years of intel work since the war, and you get this in half an hour?” 

“More like an hour and-a-half, _sir_ ,” Tom corrected modestly.  “You were in with the Chancellor for quite some time, _sir_.”

Riker ignored the obvious taunt.  “What I want to know is, if she’s been told to keep this quiet, why tell you?  And why now?”

“Three possible reasons.  One, she’s been bursting with this for months, but knows if she tells another Andorian she’ll have an ice pick in her back before you can say ‘Ushaan’, thanks to the momentous embarrassment it would cause _somebody_.  Two, she’s not entirely stupid and thinks this was something the Federation should know.  Three, well – you said yourself, those Andorian women like blue eyes …  Guess I became a target of opportunity as well as slightly misplaced … err … trust.”

Riker rolled his eyes at his Number One.  “ _Trust_ , they call that now??  Well, at least it rhymes.  But there’s a fourth possible reason:  She’s a plant and was told to tell you all this stuff in order to … oh, I don’t know.  Sow discord between Andoria and the Federation?  Embarrass the political leadership four days before the big love fest?”

Tom took a last sip of his wine.  “Of course the jury’s out on both facts _and_ motivation.  I’ll keep my ears to the ground the next couple of days and see if I can get any corroboration before we get too excited.  But one thing is certain – that sample she took from the office, my tricorder does read it as some kind of morphogenic matrix, which would be consistent with it coming from a Changeling.  That sort of stuff doesn’t just lie around.  She did get it from somewhere around here, even if the rest of the story is bogus.”

“Let’s send it up to the Enterprise for confirmation, and to see if it matches any of the Founders that were identified as infiltrators during the war.  There’s always been rumours that some of them got away, and fears that they may be continuing the war on their own initiative.  Or just be out for a private spot of revenge.”  Riker shook his head again.  “I still can’t believe that you …  Oh hell, never mind.”

Tom’s grin stopped just this side of smug as they entered their credit sequences into the panel at the side of their table, and rose to return to their quarters for the night.  Entering the moving underground walkway that would take them back to the Imperial Guesthouse for visiting dignitaries, neither Tom nor the Captain took note of the hovercraft following them at a discreet distance.


	4. A Good Toast Can Make A Lousy Lunch

_"A diplomat's life is made up of three ingredients: protocol, Geritol and alcohol."_

_Adlai E. Stevenson_

 

“So, how’s the munchkin?” 

Taking advantage of the long-range comm facility in his room and a free few minutes before their next meeting – an Official Lunch with the Terran Ambassador – Tom had commed B’Elanna, under the guise of a personal call.

“She misses her Daddy.  Keeps looking for you in our bedroom and in our closet.  This morning I found her on her tummy looking under the bed.  At least she found Toby, who must have been under there for over a week.”

Tom sighed.  This wasn’t the first time he had been away from Miral overnight, but if he hated the mission that had taken him to Andor, he hated the absence from his wife and daughter even more.  But no point to dwell.

“Just tell her I miss her too, and that I’ll try and bring her a nice present.”  He shifted slightly in his seat to signal a change in topic to B’Elanna. 

“I assume Dr. Crusher got a chance to look at the data on those bacterial samples I sent last night?  I’d hate to come down with some unknown disease while I was down here.”

“Yes she did, and it does in fact look like a strain of the kind of _streptococcus_ that is known to mutate particularly easily.  As far as she can tell it’s an unknown strain, but she’s sent it back to the lab at Starfleet Medical for further analysis.  We’ll let you know more as soon as we find out.  In the meantime, Jorak says to be careful what you touch and eat.  He’s been attacked by a version of that kind of flu before, and I gather it’s pretty difficult to fight.”

She looked at him meaningfully.  “No heroics now, hear me, flyboy?”

“Nothing here to be heroic about, unless you count not phasering a meeting just to relieve the boredom.  On that note, I better sign off and load my phaser for lunch.  Love you, Bee.  Kiss Miral for me.  Paris out.”

Tom sat at the view screen for a minute, gathering his thoughts.  He had no idea how to proceed from here.  Wandering around the corridors asking people whether they had had any unusual experiences with senior members of the Andorian leadership didn’t strike him as very practical, and flirting with secretaries, even a blue-eyed former pilot had to admit, was a bit _ad hoc_ as a battle strategy.

Oh well.  Lunch loomed.  Tom sighed and headed for the door to meet Riker and the ever-present, officious Mr. Paak in the lobby of the Imperial Guesthouse.

…..

 

Luncheon at Tiffany’s.  Fate worse than a thousand bowls of Neelix’s quasi-kinetic gagh with leola root topping, as far as Tom Paris was concerned.  The Ambassador was a well-known former Terran socialite, whom his mother had mentioned once or twice with a note of venomous disdain in her voice that Julia Paris ordinarily reserved for only two classes of people:  Cardassian collaborators, and holovid ‘reality’ entertainers.

The Ambassadorial residence was located on the second-lowest level of the Andorian capital.  The further down you lived, the greater the prestige – not to mention the comfort level, due to the closeness to the geothermal heat that had caused the Andorians to move underground over a millennium ago.  Tom had already developed an active dislike for the first level – the site of too many hours spent cooling his heels as a human sacrifice to the gods of protocol -- and had low expectations for the second.

Knowing that both Federation representatives hailed from Terra, Mr. Paak was all a-twitter about the seniority accorded the Terran ambassador -- who was, of course, not to be confused with the Federation’s Ambassador, whom they would, of course, have the honour to pay their respects to the next day, but of course they knew that, both that they weren’t the same person and, of course, they had perused their programme … 

Tom groaned inwardly, and spent a relatively entertaining few minutes considering whether or not his erstwhile lawyer, Stan McFaddyen, might be able to make out a sufficient case for justifiable homicide based on this speech alone.  His musings were disrupted when the residence hove into view, and he reluctantly focused on the now. 

The entrance of the building, which like most on this level was partly carved out the Andorian bedrock, was dominated on either side by two oppressive slabs of Italian marble, into which an inferior but doubtless well-connected artist had carved an approximate representation of some of the most famous man-made landmarks on Earth.  A fleeting glance told Tom that the Taj Mahal was missing two of its minarets. 

The residence’s occupant proved to be not much more inspiring.

Her Excellency Tiffany Amber Kolczinsky was a slight, desiccated and highly made-up woman with a major, if imaginary, axe to grind.  The widow of a long-time campaign contributor to the President of the Terran Union, she had expected an appointment of somewhat more glamorous proportions, say as Ambassador to Vulcan or Special Emissary for Inter-Planetary Trade.  Instead, she had been given Andoria.  Among career diplomats, the frigid and strategically relatively uninteresting planet was considered a “life style posting”, one of those places where the Federation or its member planets would send people in need of a cushy landing spot, one that provided even the rankest amateur with little opportunity to cause serious political damage.

To soothe her resentment, the Ambassador had thrown herself into Andoria’s limited social scene with a vengeance.  And rather than contribute to advancing the considerable political and economic interests of the planet she had been sent to represent, Her Excellency specialized in random functions that included a deeply unobvious blend of individuals.  At her gatherings, artists would be paired with military strategists, physicians with physicists, and hard-drinking journalists with ethicists or, if she could find one, Bajoran vedeks; her hobby was to observe their inevitably futile attempts at coherent conversation with a schizophrenic mixture of obliviousness and malicious glee. 

Her Excellency had initially resented her minion’s selections, which she knew would inevitably result in boring discussions on Federation politics or other matters that held little interest for her.  And so it was with considerable delight that she discovered, upon receiving the usual biographical information on her guests, that today’s mix included a most exotic creature indeed:  An ex-convict.  Not that this delectable tidbit formed part of Commander Tom Paris’ official biography – he had, after all, been formally pardoned – but the Paris clan was well known, and well talked about, in the circles in which Tiffany Kolczinsky used to move.  And this was one piece of delicious information one simply did not forget.

Tiffany Amber was in heaven, and upon his arrival Tom Paris found himself treated to the most saccharine smile he’d encountered since those vampire women in the Delta Quadrant had abducted Harry for use as a sperm donor.  He knew his fate was sealed the instant the Ambassador greeted him with a limp handshake and the words, “Oh Commander – I believe your _most interesting_ background will doubtless prove _fabulous_ material for conversation.  Your _daarling_ mother, whom I have met at many, _many_ Restoration fundraisers – de _light_ ful woman, always so elegantly attired -- must be _so_ proud of all you’ve achieved.”

Tom’s internal klaxons were raging, to the point that he considered taking his alert status from ‘run’ to ‘hide’.  He leaned over to Riker -- who was accepting a colourful cocktail from an expensive-looking android server -- and whispered in his ear.  “Will, any chance of an emergency evac?”

Riker looked at him with sincere regret shadowing his eyes.  “Sorry Tom, too late I’m afraid.  Just grin and bear it.  I’ll make it up to you, somehow – promise.” 

“Gee, thanks, boss,” Tom muttered darkly, feeling distinctly ungrateful. 

 

Now, Tom Paris had in his lifetime attended far more than what he considered his fair share of diplomatic functions, both as a captive member of Admiral Paris’ household, and as a senior officer of the only Federation starship in the Delta Quadrant.  As far as he was concerned, these things fell into two distinct and mutually exclusive categories:  (1) Potentially Useful And To Be Endured With Good Grace; and (2) Utterly Devoid Of Merit And To Be Avoided At All Costs. 

Tom had formed a certain tolerance, even a grudging appreciation, for the first – the kind of quasi-social event held to lubricate advances on matters of substance, where official speeches or cocktails served as a convenient cover-up for the conclusion of often quite delicate business on the margins and in the corridors.  He recalled events in his childhood, where battle strategies or Starfleet politics took a ninety-degree turn as a result of a quiet discussion over burgers on his parents’ back porch. 

This particular gathering, he concluded in a matter of seconds, was not in that category.

The personality of the Ambassador -- whom it did not take a Deanna Troi to read like an open book -- made it far more likely that this was the sort of event where the host sought to derive stature from relentlessly exposing one or two of the guests to the withering scrutiny of others.  Based on her greeting, Tom had no illusions just who the target of today’s lunchtime vivisection would be. 

He headed to the bar for another drink to steel himself.  He waved off the offer of a gin and tonic -- too much of a whiff of his mother’s bridge club -- but at least the wine was tolerable.

Once all the guests were seated, the Ambassador clinked her glass to make the general introductions.  The other guests included a smattering of other Federation ambassadors and members of the local aristocracy, as well as the commander of the Andorian Planetary Defence Force – a member of one of the extra Andorian genders that didn’t seem to fulfill an obvious purpose in procreation but probably livened things up in other respects -- who immediately attached himself to the Captain like a burr, and a hapless junior official from the Imperial Palace Office. 

The latter, who could have been male but quite possibly was not, had been tagged to replace the Imperial Chief of Staff, the most senior of the invitees.  Karon Marlev had cited last minute ‘operational reasons’ to excuse himself, in blithe regard of the words ‘this invitation is not transferable’ on the expensively embossed card.  Her Excellency could barely contain her distaste when she introduced him as Rahm Theraan; it was clear to even the most impartial observer that this substitution was a personal slight, not soon to be forgotten.  But at least the man – if such he was -- belonged to one of Andoria’s leading families, one that had in the distant past ruled over the icy Imperium and might yet do so again.

Lunch was served, and conversation was reduced to the inconsequential chatter about the weather and the eagerly anticipated spring, how long one had been on Andoria, and the like.  Tom could hold his own as well as anyone in spinning semi-witty exchanges out of absolutely nothing, and was beginning to nourish the hope that this would be the extent of his suffering for the day.

He was wrong.

The Ambassador clinked her glass as dessert, coffee and other stimulating beverages were being served, her voice all sweetness and light again.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we made our quick introductions before our meal.  But please allow me now to revert to the reason behind our gathering today.  I am beyond pleased to have as my guests of honour two most distinguished Starfleet Officers, both hailing from my home planet, namely Captain William Thomas Riker and Commander Thomas Eugene Paris, of the USS Enterprise, the flagship of the fleet …”

She droned on in that vein for some time until finally, with a predatory glint in her eyes, she zeroed in on her target.  Her delivery was punctuated by high-pitched stresses on particular words, and fluttering hand gestures that caused those seated beside her to shrink back a little each time.

 “… and of course Commander Paris has had a _particularly_ colourful career in Starfleet.  After being sentenced to prison for supporting the Maquis – imagine that, _prison_ , although _now_ of course we’re being told that the Maquis were maybe not so bad – he was flung into the Gamma Quadrant and served as the Chief Pilot on the famous USS Voyager for seven years, where he had _all sorts_ of adventures.  Including, if the reports are accurate, even a few _more_ criminal convictions.”

She tittered and caught her breath, throwing Riker a smile that would have made a viper look for a career change.  “So _tell_ us, Captain, what is it like to work with someone as _interesting_ as Mr. Paris as your First Officer?”

Riker cast a quick glance at his Number One, whose face had turned to stone even as he heroically refrained from crushing his wine glass in a white-knuckled grip.  The Captain’s own eyes resembled fully loaded phaser banks, which he trained on their blissfully oblivious hostess. 

“Mr. Paris’ _colourful career_ , as you put it, has made him into one of Starfleet’s most valued and unorthodox tacticians.  He is among our most highly decorated officers, having saved his former ship on a number of occasions, including by infiltrating hostile forces on a mission that would likely have killed anyone else, and retaking the ship from alien attacks by organizing his own armada.”

He took a sip of his wine, the sound his glass made when he set it down resonating like a gunshot in the now absolute silence of the dining room.  “In _my_ line of work, ma’am, we value merit above superficial appearances.” 

Riker looked over at Tom, whose eyes had thawed slightly in appreciation of his Captain’s spirited defence of his record.  Torn between giving his XO a right of reply and the fear that to do so might cause a diplomatic conflagration, Riker decided that justice required the former.  Besides, he found himself to be a little curious just how his Number One might play this round.  He gave Tom a slight nod of encouragement, accompanied by a raised eyebrow meant as a warning to keep the temperature reasonable.

Tom’s face assumed a blandly pleasant expression.  “Thanks, Captain.  I really don’t have much to add, except to agree completely with Her Excellency that at times, it would indeed appear that people do get elevated to their positions from the most unusual and seemingly _utterly_ unsuitable backgrounds.” 

He paused to let the comment sink in, studiously avoiding his Captain’s gaze.  The Vulcan Ambassador inclined his head in his direction.  _Touch_ é _._  Emboldened, Tom continued even as Riker began to vaguely regret the decision to let him off the leash. 

“My family, over many generations, has represented the United Federation of Planets in numerous capacities, but as Starfleet officers, we have always had to … _actually work_ to earn that privilege.  You can therefore imagine the _thrill and amazement_ I feelto be here, in the company of a fellow Terran who rose so easily, and who so _perfectly_ represents the political landscape in my home world.” 

He picked up his glass; the K’tarian merlot had been the sole redeeming feature of the day so far, may as well not let it go to waste.  “So, Ladies and Gentlemen, please allow me to propose a toast to the _refined_ environment in which we all find ourselves on this occasion.  An environment, Your Excellency, that forcefully calls to my mind the _ephemeral_ beauty found at the very centre of the Great Carinian Nebula.” 

Tom raised his glass, smiled and took a delicate sip in the direction of Her Excellency, who seemed pleased by the mellifluously delivered if slightly obscure compliment, even as she was slightly miffed that her target somehow seemed to have escaped further scrutiny.  While Tiffany Kolczynski could not help but raise her own glass in response to the toast, Riker struggled with the wine that suddenly shot up the back of his nose, and the Vulcan ambassador raised not one but both eyebrows. 

The political counselor, who was well-versed in the art of the diplomatic _double entendre_ but lacked a background in astrophysics, entered a couple of discrete keystrokes into his PADD.  When he read what popped onto his screen, he tipped his glass to Tom in a gesture of deepest professional respect. 

The Commander had, after all, called for a toast, and if he wished to toast the Alpha Quadrant’s only known completely substance-free zone, who was the counselor to disagree? 

While the precise nature of Tom’s comments was lost on the Ambassador, she did understand perfectly well that the wind had been taken out of her conversational sails.  The luncheon was brought to a rapid and welcome conclusion, and the guests wasted no time dispersing in all directions.

No one noticed the lingering, thoughtful glance Rahm Theraan, the representative of the Imperial Palace, gave to the younger of the two Starfleet Officers as he watched them depart.

…..

 

“Well, _that_ was fun,” Tom drawled as they headed towards the escalators that would take them back to the level where their accommodations were located.  “Almost as much as a round of osteo-regeneration without a hypo spray.”

“The Great Carinian Nebula?”  Riker was finally able to unleash the laughter he had been forced to withhold.  “You’re good, Paris, you’re good.  Honestly, you should consider a career in diplomacy.  I have to comm that one to Picard.  He may want to use it some day.” 

The Captain stopped in his tracks suddenly, almost causing their Andorian protocol shadow to plough into him.  He waved the man off in an impatient and unsubtle request for privacy, and lowered his voice. 

“Look, Tom, I said I’d make this up to you somehow, and I know this isn’t much, but why don’t you take the rest of the day off.  I’ll come up with a good reason for why my … _aide de camp_ is unavailable to accompany me.  Maybe an indigestible lunch?  So take a few hours shore leave, go do something touristy -- I don’t know, visit the ice caves, do some shopping for B’Elanna and Miral, whatever.”

Tom laughed.  “Afraid I might take a phaser to the next illustrious gathering, Captain?” 

Riker grinned and shook his head.  “No, although if I were you I’d probably consider it.  But there’s only so much crap I can ask you to put up with.  So, take advantage of my guilt trip, go change into civvies, wander around and clear your head.  I’ll see you tonight for dinner.” 

“Well, you certainly won’t get an argument from me, Captain.  And …  thanks.  Have fun this afternoon at – what is it, the Andorian Chamber of Commerce?  I’ll try and spare you the occasional thought.  Oh, and don’t forget to be extra-nice to the secretaries.”

Riker watched with a fond – and slightly envious -- headshake as his XO peeled off their little group of three with something resembling a spring in his step for the first time in two days. 

Mr. Paak, for his part, sputtered in indignation at the un-consulted change of plans, but was quelled with a quick frown; he had to accept with good grace, moreover, Riker’s dictate that the unexpected and temporary reduction of the Federation delegation was not to be communicated back to his Head Office.  His frustrated glance and imperceptible shrug in the direction of the hovercraft waiting in the alleyway went unnoticed, as was the subsequent nod that directed its occupants to stay with the Captain rather than his less significant sidekick.

As for Tom, he did feel an uncomfortable and familiar tingling on his back as he walked away from the residence -- one that made him turn around repeatedly.  When he did spot the shadow pressing itself into a building entrance as he turned, a slightly contemptuous smile curled his lips.

Amateur.


	5. Sightsee While You Can

_The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page._

_St. Augustine_

 

The first thing Tom did with his unexpected freedom was to dash back to his well-furnished suite in the Imperial Guest House to change.  He tossed his uniform in the refresher and rummaged through his duffel, looking for something suitable to wear instead.

The quick research he’d done on the Andorian ice caves while still on the Enterprise suggested that they were not as cold as the air above ground, and supposedly quite tolerable in just a jacket and maybe gloves.  He quickly realized that his duffle bag contained nothing suitable, most of the space having been taken up by his dress uniform, dress shoes and a couple spare tunics and other necessities.  Not even his favourite pair of jeans had made the cut, since he had had no real expectation of leisure time.

Time to replicate something.  He’d probably pay a premium using the hotel replicator, but Jenny Delaney had commed him only a week ago with the latest rather embarrassing update on the royalties from the Captain Proton holovid sales, and so Tom wasn’t exactly worried.

A sly grin crossed his face.  _Buy something for B’Elanna_ , Riker had said.  After they had chatted with Jenny his mate had – somewhat surprisingly – privately lamented the untimely demise of his old Captain Proton outfit, which Tom had thrown in the recycler in a fit of resentment when his editor tried to insist that he wear it for the launch of Chapters Thirteen to Fifteen.  Tom was quite capable of picking up subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints from his wife though, and if his love liked him in leather, well, who was he to argue?  Might as well kill two birds with one stone…

A few minutes and a major hit to his credit account later, Tom gave himself an appraising look in the mirror.  Leather pants, black turtleneck -- for extra layering -- over a white T-shirt, black leather jacket distressed for that elusive coolness factor: the overall look was slightly reminiscent of a 20th century movie about guys who spent way too much time on motorbikes.  _Not bad_ , he thought smugly.  Good thing that, with the Captain as a walking deterrent, he was managing to keep his weight down even when he spent a lot of his time sitting and reading reports …

He clipped his tricorder on his belt out of habit – Mr. Paak had been quite insistent that carrying a phaser was incompatible with his diplomatic status – and headed out the door after determining from the attendant in the lobby that the nearest transporter station was only a few hundred meters away.

Now Tom Paris was not an empath, but he hadn’t survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant without learning that when your intuition screamed at you, you were well advised to listen.  Especially when it came with a soundtrack of scurrying feet.  His shadow was back.

He deliberately lengthened his stride.  _Time to get some exercise, buddy._   Looking around just as he entered the station, he saw a figure duck into a corner.  _Gotcha._

Tom smiled grimly to himself.  Whoever was following him better be ready to spend a couple of hours in an ice cave.

 

**.....**

Bridge staff on the Enterprise had been reduced to a skeleton crew while the ship was parked in a stable orbit around the sixth planet in the Andorian system.  Having just spent a week at Deep Space Six for a warp coil refit, the ship required little attention or maintenance and people were enjoying a bit of downtime.

And so it was Ensign Carsons, rather than Lieutenant Harry Kim, who was on duty and noticed the sudden and unexpected approach of four Andorian battle cruisers in attack formation. 

Of course, Carsons saw no particular cause for concern.  Andoria was a founding member of the Federation, and the Enterprise was in their system at the invitation of the Imperial Palace.  Accordingly, he put no particular urgency behind the notification of the ships’ arrival to Lieutenant Commander Jorak. 

Nonetheless, the Vulcan – Acting CO in the absence of both the Captain and First Officer – emerged from the ready room with considerable speed, calling for senior officers to come to the bridge at once.  Being chief of security sure seemed to bring with it a certain degree of paranoia, Carsons could not help thinking – right up until the moment when Jorak’s reaction no longer seemed all that misplaced any more.

Jorak sat down in the Captain’s chair and quickly confirmed that the four ships had completely encircled the Enterprise before coming to a stop.

“Open channel,” he intoned in his clipped voice.  “This is Lieutenant Commander Jorak, Acting Captain of the USS Enterprise.  Explain yourselves.”

The Andorian Captain who appeared on the screen bore the insignia of the Andorian Planetary Defence Force.  “There is no cause for concern, Commander,” the Andorian said, the movement of his antennae belying his otherwise studiedly calm demeanour.  His failure to identify himself was not lost on any of the bridge crew.

“We are simply providing … security, at the request of the Imperial Palace.  There is some indication that, in anticipation of the Presentation in three days, certain … factions may wish to disrupt the long-standing excellent relations between the Federation and the Andorian Imperium.  We merely wish to ensure your vessel’s safety.  You will have noted that we have not powered up our weapons systems, and we have no intention to do so.”

The Andorian smiled unctuously.  “While the Enterprise remains in this orbit there is absolutely nothing to worry about, Commander.  We do, of course, need to take certain … precautions, in the event there are difficulties, to ensure the Federations continued … neutrality.”

Jorak motioned for the comm link to be disrupted.  “Analysis?”

Deanna Troi, who had appeared beside him halfway during the Andorian’s monologue, simply said, “He’s lying.  This is _not_ about ensuring the Enterprise’s neutrality, it’s about neutralizing us.”

Harry Kim, who had joined Carsons at ops, banged the console in frustration before looking up.  “Sir, all our long-range communications have been disrupted.  I can raise neither the command team’s quarters on Andor nor Starfleet Headquarters.  They must have some kind of scrambling device on those vessels.”

Deanna turned to Jorak, obvious worry creasing her forehead.  “If we are being immobilized here, what about … the Captain and Commander Paris?” 

Jorak looked at her with infinite Vulcan patience.  “I am aware, Counselor, that any reaction we take may well have a negative impact on the command team’s safety, ad that this situation suggests they may already be in some danger.  Nonetheless, I am afraid I must make a number of points to the Andorians in order to ensure the safety of the ship.”

He reopened the channel.  “I appreciate the confirmation that you have, at present, no hostile intent.  However, you will also appreciate that your tactics for, as you put it, _ensuring our safety_ are in direct violation of the Intergalactic Convention on Diplomatic Relations, and tantamount to an act of aggression against the United Federation of Planets, of whom we are official representatives here in the Andorian system.”

Jorak arose from the Captain’s chair and positioned himself behind Sue Henley at the helm.  “We will remain in orbit for the time being.  However, any move on the part of any one of your vessels to power up weapons or in anyway to jeopardize the safety of this ship will be met with immediate and full force.  Jorak out.”

He cut the channel off without offering the Andorian a chance to respond, and looked around the bridge, where B’Elanna and the Chief Conn Officer, Lieutenant O’Reilly, had just arrived, the latter in sweats and still out of breath from whatever he had been doing on the holodeck.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, please join me in the briefing room.  Ensign Carsons, please ask Dr. Crusher and Lieutenant Commander Cran to join us.  You have the bridge.”

Before turning on his heel, Jorak gave Carsons an impassive but meaningful look.  “And please, Ensign, do _not_ hesitate to alert us _forthwith_ to any future movements by the Andorian fleet.  Or by any other vessel in the vicinity, for that matter.”

 

…..

 

The briefing room was quiet and, in the absence of Will Riker’s massive form, seemed bigger than usual.  Jorak looked to his fellow officers for views, analysis and options.

Deanna Troi spoke first.  Casting a sympathetic eye on the Chief Engineer, whose husband had now been confirmed as having been cut off from all communications with the ship along with her own, she noted that her limited exposure to the Andorian Captain had not resulted in any particularly useful insights.  “He seems to be acting on orders rather than based on any emotional impulses of his own, very convinced that he is doing the right thing.  I would assume therefore that his orders came from very high in his chain of command.”

Harry chimed in.  “Based on what I know about the Andorians, which isn’t much, this is rather atypical.  My guess – and that’s all it is – is that this blockade is an attempt to bluff and bluster their way out of some form of political embarrassment.  Maybe their little party isn’t going the way they thought.”

“Could it have something to do with that DNA sample Tom sent last night?” asked B’Elanna, looking alternately at Jorak and Beverly Crusher. 

“The timing is certainly a remarkable coincidence,” replied the Vulcan.  “Although we have very little evidence to go by at this point, the possibility of further Changeling infiltration of the Andorian leadership cannot be precluded.  Alternatively, we may be facing an attempt at convincing us to keep the discovery of the first one a secret.  This would not be inconsistent with Mr. Kim’s theory.”

Beverly Crusher ran her hand through her thick, red hair.  “I’ve checked what Tom sent us against Starfleet data bases before we lost the comm links, and found nothing compatible.  The individual Changeling from whom the cells were taken is not in Starfleet records.”

“Anything else the sample could tell us?”

Beverley shook her head.  “Unfortunately, the very nature of metamorphic life forms is that you can only tell their basic nature from DNA, but nothing about appearances they may have taken on.  We can’t even tell with certainty that the sample was taken from a deceased specimen, since the usual necrotic changes don’t affect them.”

“Necrotic changes?”  Harry looked a bit out of his depth.

“Their tissue doesn’t decompose.  Otherwise Tom’s amateur sleuth of a secretary would probably have been found out pretty quickly.  I don’t assume she kept her little souvenir in sterile conditions.”

“Oh.  _Eww_.”

Jorak seemed determined to get the meeting back under control.  He leveled his gaze at all the senior officers in turn.

“Unless anyone has other insights to offer it is my intention to maintain yellow alert status for the ship, with full bridge complement present at all times.  Lieutenant Kim, Commander Torres, I would request that you focus your teams on restoring communications with Starfleet and the command team in any form possible.” 

Both Harry and B’Elanna nodded, the Chief Engineer with a look of particularly grim determination. 

“I will request security to devise a manner to break the blockade, in the event our attempt to communicate with Starfleet fails.  We should look at all options, from getting a shuttle through, to transporting an away team onto a passing ship.  Informing Starfleet of what has transpired here must be our Number One priority, lest this incident escalate further and turn into a full-on conflict.  Dismissed.”

…..

 

The Andorian ice caves were a true wonder of this sector of the galaxy, and while Tom Paris would normally have preferred to poke around in the less accessible corners to avoid the hordes of noisy school children, in honour of whoever was shadowing him he decided to stick to the well-visited and very public pathways that led through the most famous parts. 

For once the tourist hype had not exaggerated, and Tom found himself spellbound by the sight of thousand-metre high stalactites and stalagmites of frozen water.  Diamond-hard, translucent and sparkling cascades testified to an age long ago, when the moon of Andor was a more temperate, more congenial place, one in which water flowed freely.

The cave where pre-historic creatures -- prettily backlit for effect -- could be seen trapped in the ice gave his inner child the creeps a little, and Tom was glad that Miral wasn’t with him.  His daughter would have insisted that Daddy take out his phaser and free them, one by one, especially the ones that looked like a furry version of the pre-historic Terran lizards that she seemed to love so much.

But after two hours, the close proximity to millions of cubic feet of frozen water was beginning to take its toll on Tom’s body temperature notwithstanding the tolerable ambient temperature, and he was beginning to regret his decision not to bring his parka.  A quick check of his chronometer confirmed that he had about an hour and a half before he was supposed to meet the Captain, just enough for a brief stop in the gift shop and a warming cup of Earl Grey tea. 

He was fairly confident now that his shadow must have eschewed the trip through the caves and would probably be hovering – and hopefully shivering a little -- at the entrance.  Well, he or she could bloody well wait a little longer.  Family was more important than playing spy catcher any day.  The gift shop awaited.

At nearly eighteen months, Miral was heavily into stacking and sorting, taking things out of containers and putting them back in – a definite chip off the maternal block, Tom thought fondly.  He was pleased to find that the children’s section boasted a (vastly over-priced) crystalline ice-cube puzzle, which when completed lit up in multiple colours and played a tinkling Andorian folk song.  _Perfection_ , he said to himself in Seven’s voice. 

The acquisition made Tom bask momentarily in a sense of accomplished fatherhood; maybe the day wasn’t a total loss after all, even if, as it turned out, the cafeteria had never heard of Earl Grey. 

Steaming Vulcan coffee in hand, and with even greater care than usual, he conducted his habitual scan for the location of emergency exits and other potential bolt holes, until he found an empty table by the back wall that met his exacting criteria while affording a good view of the crowded room. 

And so Tom Paris was not taken by surprise when the Andorian official he had briefly met at the Ambassador’s luncheon walked up to his table and pulled out a dagger.


	6. The Most Useful Meetings Happen Over Coffee

 

“ _Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.”_  

 _William Shakespeare (Hamlet)_  

 

 

Tom peered at his uninvited guest over the rim of his cup, making a show of continuing to sip his coffee with a complete lack of concern.  The dagger the Andorian had so ostentatiously placed on the table before him looked like one of the ceremonial pieces worn by Imperial Officials on formal occasions.  As a weapon, it was of little consequence against anyone reasonably fluent in a number of unorthodox and dirty forms of hand-to-hand combat, as Tom certainly was.  Still, a point needed to be made.

“Is that thing supposed to scare me?”  Tom asked, in a soft, even voice, carefully modulated to convey a not-so-subtle threat.  “You know, I bet you this nice cup of Vulcan coffee here that I can pick it up and bury it in your throat without spilling a drop. Of my coffee, that is.”

The young, slightly pudgy Andorian flinched visibly and pulled back in his seat, unconsciously fingering his collar.  His eyes darted back and forth, as if to reassure himself that there were witnesses present who would be able to testify to the circumstances of his untimely and violent demise. 

Tom relaxed further.  _Pathetic_ , he thought.  So much for the vaunted Andorian fighting prowess Chakotay was always on about.

“No, no, no, Commander – you have entirely the wrong impression.”  The young official’s voice was a little squeaky, with a touch of nervous stammer.  “Or perhaps you’re just not familiar with Andorian customs?  The dagger … putting your weapon flat on the table is … it’s important when you want to make a … a business proposition.  It’s a gesture of … of trust.  _Sir_.  Of openness, laying down your arms.  And to show that … that there won’t be any back-stabbing.  It’s only when you stick it into the table upright that … that … well, _then_ it’s a challenge.” 

 _Oh._   Now Tom felt like an idiot, not to mention a bit of a bully.  _Poor little bureaucrat._ He really had to remember to ask Starfleet Protocol to include a bit more detail on local business etiquette in their utterly unhelpful briefing packages.

Tom leaned back in his seat, thumbs hooked into he belt of his pants, in an attempt to signal to his terrified tablemate that it was okay to scale down the alert level.  But he still resented the idea that the guy had obviously followed him around for most of the afternoon, and decided to let his displeasure show.

“You were at the Ambassador’s lunch, weren’t you?  The one Her Worshipfulness thought should have been someone more important?  I’m sorry, but I forget your name.” 

“Rahm Theraan, Commander.  Assistant Under-Secretary to the Chief of Staff of the Imperial Palace.” 

“Most welcome, Rahm Theraan.”  Tom delivered the ceremonial Andorian greeting with a distinct absence of sincerity, and the closest approximation of the Janeway Death Glare he could muster with a straight face while clutching a _Vulcan_ coffee.  “And you are following me around why, exactly?  And no, please don’t try and deny it.  I made you.  Twice.  You aren’t very good at spying, you know.  Don’t give up your day job.”

The Andorian shrunk back into himself even more, and Tom almost felt sorry for him.  Almost.  “Pardon the intrusion, Commander, but I thought … I need …” 

Rahm Theraan looked around furtively again, and Tom was beginning to get the idea that the young official thought he was going out on a limb about something.  On a hunch, and remembering Edora Thaar, he decided to switch from ‘stay-the-hell-away-from-me’ to ‘more-or-less-charming’ mode, just to see where that would get him.  Here was to hoping the blue eye thing wouldn’t have the same effect on non-females, though…

“Yes?  Spit it out, man.  I don’t bite.”  Tom smiled encouragingly.  “Much, anyway.”

“I’m sorry sir, maybe I shouldn’t have troubled you.  But after what Captain Riker said about you at the luncheon, and the way you handled that … that woman,” a brief, appreciative smile crossed Rahm’s blue lips at the memory, and his antennae twitched a little as he blurted out, “I thought you might be just the kind of person that could help us out, on a very delicate matter.”

“Us?”  Tom inquired mildly.  Now they were getting somewhere.

“Err … Andoria, sir.  The Imperium.”

“ _You_ were sent to talk to _me_ by the _Imperial Office_?”  Tom made no effort to hide his utter disbelief.  After two days of relentless exposure to Andorian protocol at its most fossilized and obnoxious, the idea that Starfleet assistance on a Matter of State would be sought from the Enterprise’s second-in-command, by a junior official, and in the cafeteria of a major tourist attraction, was beyond absurd.

“Yes.  No.  _No._ Not really.  No, I came on my own.  No one knows I’m here, or with you.  I hope.  You see, there are things … happening … that …  You see, I believe in the Imperium, and its place in the Federation, but right now …” 

Rahm swallowed hard, trying to wet his dry throat to enable the words to form, and struggled to collect himself.  Wordlessly, Tom passed him his cup of Vulcan coffee.  The Andorian took a grateful sip, then another, closed his eyes and allowed his story to pour out.

Accusations flying back and forth between the Chancellor’s Office and the Palace; questionable decisions during the Dominion War emanating from the former Chancellor.  The unexplained death of the previous Chancellor, allegations of corruption against the present one.  Political instability.  Clan politics.  Fear of a coup against the Imperial Family.  Not, of course, Rahm hastened to add, by his own clan, who were _fiercely_ loyal to the Emperor.  Seeming indifference from the Imperial Palace’s Chief of Staff.

Tom suppressed the temptation to give a deliberate yawn.  Much of this he had already heard about from Edora, although the corroboration was useful.  Certainly none of it seemed to suggest a role for him or the Enterprise, apart from their being dragooned into the grand make-up session that was supposed to make all that political discord go away.

Rahm looked at Tom, a forlorn expression in his face.

“And now, the princess has disappeared.”

 

.....

 

Tom, who had repossessed what remained of his coffee, managed to stop himself just short of spraying a good portion of it all over the _faux_ granite table. 

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, Commander, I regret to advise that Princess Lissan of Andoria has not been seen for three days.  Needless to say,” Rahm cast another furtive look around the room, “this _cannot_ be made public, or the political ramifications would be horrendous.”  His voice took on a hoarse whisper.  “Possibly the end of the Empire, or at least the Shran dynasty.”

“No shit,” Tom observed matter-of-factly.  “Isn’t she supposed to be the Great Blue Hope, the symbol of Andorian unity, and the person half the Federation is coming here to inspect in three days?” 

Rahm Theraan nodded, miserably.

“And if she doesn’t show …?”

“The Emperor will have to declare another Successor or lose face forever.  And he would be forced to pick a Successor from another family, since Princess Lissan is his only child.  The clan wars might reignite over his choice.”

Interesting.  A game of musical thrones seemed to be shaping up on Andor, but Tom was still at a loss to figure out what the imperial succession troubles  could possibly have to do with the Enterprise, or him personally for that matter.

“Okay, I think we’re getting somewhere now,” he said.  “A disappearance.  Possibly a politically motivated kidnapping?  But why, pray tell, are you coming to _me_ with this?  If Andoria wants the Federation to get involved, why didn’t the Imperial Office just ask for a meeting with Captain Riker?  Or the local Federation representative, for that matter?”

Rahm looked down at his fingernails, opaque and white against his blue skin.  His antennae began an agitated little dance as he took a deep breath.

“You may already have guessed, but this … this _isn’t_ an official request, Commander. “  Tom heroically refrained from rolling his eyes at the obvious statement.  _Well, duh._

“There are … forces … both in the Imperial Office and elsewhere in Government that I believe don’t mind this development at all. Chancellor Erdilev would be the first to take advantage.  So it’s been kept very quiet.  I believe the Chief of Staff, my superior, has sent out a number of trusted people to try and find her and bring her back.  Or so I understand, based on some orders I found.  He wouldn’t talk to me about this directly.”

“You say, ‘bring her back’?  So it’s _not_ a kidnapping then?  Pardon me, but I’m getting confused here.  And you still haven’t told me why you came to me, and entirely on your own.”  From what Tom had seen so far, initiative did not seem particularly encouraged among junior Andorian officials, and this seemed entirely a free-lance operation.

“The thing is, sir, it occurred to me … and please don’t take this the wrong way …” He looked up at a deeply skeptical Tom Paris, finally mustering the courage to look him in the eyes, his own yellowish ones widening when they took in the hard sapphire stare. 

“When the Ambassador mentioned your … your peculiar background, and the Captain told us about all the … the _amazing_ things you did while you were with Voyager, it seemed to me…”  Rahm’s words came out at warp speed now.  “… that-maybe-you-might-be-exactly-the-kind-of-person-who-could-get-her-back-from-wherever-she-is.  Quietly.”  His mission statement finally delivered, he took a deep breath.

Tom couldn’t help himself.  He threw back his head and dissolved into helpless laughter.  Tom Paris, romantic ex-con/hero, to the rescue.  Oh, he could just see Harry having a field day with this scenario:  _Captain Proton and the Princess in Distress!_ Or should it be _Former Felon Foils Fiendish Flap?_

Rahm Theraan, for his part, couldn’t hide his righteous pique at Tom’s reaction.  “I’m sorry, Commander, if you find what could be the greatest disaster that has struck the Imperium since the Dominion War to be a source of mirth.  I should have known better than to come here,” he huffed, and started to rise.

Tom wiped his eyes and held up his hand to stop him from leaving.  The young bureaucrat’s proposition may have been utterly naïve and absurd, and, hell yes, _mirth-inducing,_ but he couldn’t deny the potential intelligence value of his preposterous tale.  At the very least, he’d have another great story with which to regale the Captain over dinner.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve got to admit that all this sounds a bit … far-fetched.  Just tell me one thing, how do _you_ know about the princess’ disappearance if it’s such a tightly-held secret that even your boss won’t talk to you about it?  And why are you personally so keen on resolving it, as you say, _on the quiet,_ if there’s no foul play involved?”

Rahm straightened his shoulders, a little defiantly.  “The princess and my half-sister played together when they were children.  Lissan is like a little sister to me.”  Tom raised an eyebrow.  “No, no – we’re just friends.  I am not a … potential mate, and so we have been permitted to converse often since I joined the Imperial Office.  Lissan … tells me things.  I’m the only one in the Palace who treats her like a person, not like a statue.  That’s how I figured out that she has run away.  You see, her father … well … he has all these plans for her, and she hates the idea of being … trotted out for political purposes.”

Now there was a feeling with which Tom Paris, himself the survivor of a childhood spent swimming around in circles in a goldfish bowl, could definitely sympathize.  But he sensed that there was more to come from the chubby little Andorian, and so he waited, quietly.

“The Emperor must be really mad at her for what she’s done, so if we get her back before … he gets embarrassed too badly, and before someone else finds her, it would be … better.  And I think I know where she is, or at least the last place she’s been.  She sent me a note, on our secret frequency, saying they were headed to a place called Nardik Space Station.”

“ _They_?”

“She said ‘we’.  I believe she may be travelling with one of the members of the Imperial Guard assigned to her.  She may be desperate, but she wouldn’t be crazy enough to go on he own.  And she said that on Nardik they would be leaving her yacht behind – it‘s rather obviously an official vehicle -- and looking for more inconspicuous transport onward.”  Rahm paused, eying what remained of Tom’s coffee wistfully.  Sighing a little inwardly, Tom pushed the cup over to the young Andorian who clutched it gratefully and downed the last bits with a gulp.

“I suspect she wants to go into the Neutral Zone.  So her father can’t send his people after her to get her back.”  Rahm dropped his voice to a whisper, as if he were betraying another state secret.  “The Romulans won’t have it, you know.  Intrusion into the Neutral Zone by an Andorian state vessel, Andoria being a member of the Federation and all, would cause a Major Incident.  She knows that her father can’t afford that right now.  And besides, there’s an uninhabited planet at the Nardik end of the Neutral Zone with supposedly spectacular landscapes that she often told me she would like to visit.”  He added with a note of fraternal pride in his voice, “She would rather be an explorer than a princess.  And so the more exotic a locale, the better, you see.”

Tom was indeed beginning to see:  Rahm’s famous princess must be possessed of a rather unhealthy combination of naivete, spunk, and the means to turn childish fantasies into precipitous, highly prejudicial and life-threatening action. 

“But why don’t you just tell, oh I don’t know, the _Andorian security service_ or your boss where you think she is now, before going after her could embarrass the Emperor and possibly cause a spat with the Romulans?”  he prodded. 

Rahm hedged a little.  I agree that sShe may be a bit … headstrong, Commander.  Impulsive.  And maybe not the best at thinking things through.  But I can’t tell anyone here on Andor because …”

“Because?”  Tom prompted him softly, encouragingly now.

The Andorian took a deep breath, and his feelers began another nervous dance.  “Do you know about the Ushaan, Commander?” 

Tom, surprised, gave a brief, single nod.  The plot was thickening.  Again.

“Then you will know that it is never formally declared, until it is completed.  Rule 1,147.  It may be a sad comment on the state of things in Andoria and the bad blood among many of the important families right now, but I do believe that if it were known where she was, someone may … no, _will_ want to take the opportunity to harm her.  I simply don’t know whom I can trust.”  He looked at Tom with a haunted expression in his yellow-green eyes.  “And that includes my superior, the Chief of Staff.  I know that’s a terrible thing to say.”

There really wasn’t much more to add.  The tale was as preposterous as its teller appeared sincere and desperate – surely he must be, to approach a complete stranger for no reason other than that he had been impressed by the latter’s rather eclectic career moves -- and Tom wanted nothing more than share the story with Riker and get his Captain’s take on it.  Not that he thought Riker would be inclined to take any action; as far as Tom was concerned, these were matters probably  best handled by diplomatic and political experts in San Francisco, not by mid-ranking Starfleet officers.

Nonetheless, Tom dutifully entered the contact coordinates for Theraan into his tricorder, in the event he or the Captain came up with any bright ideas and wanted to get in touch.  He and the young Andorian parted ways amicably, although Rahm could not hide an expression that suggested he was calculating the magnitude of the mistake he might have made in confiding inthe blue-eyed human.

 

…..

 

Tom returned to the Imperial Guest House still mentally shaking his head.  He wasn’t sure what bothered him more, the idea that a junior Andorian official seemed to place greater trust in a human Starfleet officer he had never met before today than in his own superiors and security services, or that this trust seemed to be based somehow on his own ‘colourful’ career, as the Terran Ambassador had so euphemistically put it. 

Over the years, Tom Paris had succeeded rather decisively in building a sky-high wall around certain aspects of his past; romanticizing it as a stepping-stone to any of his subsequent successes was not something he would ever have considered useful.  And so he had kept his past where he liked it best:  buried, if not forgotten.

In the meantime, he clearly needed to talk to Riker; dinner would not be dull.  An anticipatory smile was starting to curl his mouth just as he approached the front of the Imperial Guest House. 

A smile that died on Tom’s lips as he took in the scene before him.  He stopped dead in his tracks. 

Captain William T. Riker of the USS Enterprise was in the process of leaving the Guest House, surrounded by a number of serious looking and well-armed uniformed Andorians.  He was being escorted into an official hovercraft; no one was laying a hand on him, but it was equally clear that he had no choice in the matter.  Tom recognized the crested insignia on the car as one he had been staring at for quite some time while cooling his heels outside the Chancellor’s office, and had seen a few times outside some of their meeting places.

Acting on instincts finely honed by encounters with security officials in a dozen different star systems in two Quadrants, Tom retreated into the opening alcove of a non-descript office building to observe the scene without drawing attention to himself.  The temptation to hit his comm badge was overwhelming but he knew it would be useless; the Captain’s had likely been removed, and the Enterprise was far out of range.

As luck would have it, the Captain’s eyes briefly found Tom’s as he was scanning over the crowd’s heads, and held them in a penetrating gaze for a long second.  The Captain gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head before permitting himself to be half-pushed into the open door of the waiting vehicle.

The hovercraft immediately sped off, leaving Tom no opportunity to follow it, even if he had not understood his Captain’s very clear order that he not make any sudden moves.  This was not a time for knee-jerk reactions.  This was a time to call for backup, and to weigh options.

Tom Paris pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and melted into the crowd.


	7. When In Doubt, Dance

 

_“Sometimes diplomacy requires a little sabre rattling.”_

_Captain Kathryn Janeway_

 

It did not take a warp core physicist to figure out that going back to the hotel was not an advisable course of action.  Whoever had decided to detain the Captain had probably already figured out that his sidekick was missing, and was now actively looking for him. 

Tom Paris weighed his options, and the need to communicate with the Enterprise rose to Number One no matter from which direction he examined his and Riker’s current predicament.  It was equally clear, though, that this was probably not something he should attempt in too close proximity to the Imperial Guest House. 

Fortunately, Andoria’s underground capital boasted a plethora of public transport stations, and he allowed the first one he came across to take him away from the areas where he and the Captain had spent most of their time.  Random selection took him up to the upper fifth level of Andoria’s underground capital.  They hadn’t been anywhere near that level in the two days they had spent on the moon, but as far as Tom was concerned, that was probably a Very Good Thing.

Things looked quite different closer to the surface.  When Tom left the transporter, his eyes and ears were assaulted by a bustling, noisy and cluttered streetscape, quite unlike the sweeping boulevards and neatly arranged, tidy official buildings he had so far been exposed to.  Tom was incongruously reminded of the back alleys of Marseille, although the cool air -- much chillier this far removed from the geothermal heat sources that had drawn the Andorians underground -- made the comparison less à propos.  Nonetheless, he found himself far more at ease with his physical surroundings than he had in days; beyond the appropriately gleaming interior of a starship, this was his favourite kind of place: lived in, slightly scruffy -- real.

Tom walked several blocks in an effort to get away from the transporter before beginning in earnest his search for a café with public comm facilities.  He settled on one of the slightly more upscale places in the hope that the quality of their equipment would match the price they charged for a simple meal of Tyrellian kebabs.  Since he didn’t know when he would get the chance to eat again and knew from experience that it paid to be prepared for the long haul, he figured no one would hold it against him if he commed the Enterprise with his mouth full.

He found a small booth in the back, near the rear door, with a comm terminal set right into the table.  Tom quickly entered his Starfleet access code, shielding it with his other hand against potential security cameras, then reached for his kebab.  He had already decided that the official frequency for the Enterprise was probably not the smartest thing to try, and went for the ready room’s private line instead in the hope of finding Jorak.  No joy.  He tried B’Elanna’s private line in Engineering, then their quarters.  Harry’s Ops station.  Astrometrics.  Sickbay.  The nursery.  Ten Forward.  Each and every one of his hails was met with the universal chirp indicating a bounced signal, a closed frequency.  The Enterprise’s comm system had been jammed.

Recalling his current diplomatic status, he tried to call the Permanent Mission of the Federation.  Their Number Two had seemed sensible enough when he had met her at a function the day before.  Tom’s efforts to comm the mission were bounced back with an automated apology for “disruption of service due to an ion storm in the Andorian system that is interfering with local spatial and subspace frequencies”.  Sure.  Uh-huh.

He got the same response for his efforts to contact Starfleet Headquarters, on the lone subspace frequency available on the restaurant’s system.  Tom grimly took a sip of his water and scanned the room.  No one was paying him any attention for now, but the repeated attempts from this station to open certain obviously controlled lines might as well have put a locator anklet on his foot.  Time to leave. 

On quick reflection, he used his Proton Inc. credit code to pay for the call attempts and his food.  There was no point in leaving a direct trail with his name on it, and Jenny Delaney’s uncharacteristically responsible insistence that their joint publishing venture be run through a corporation did have to be good for something eventually.  Even if this little ruse only slowed down attempts to locate him by five minutes – he was sure such attempts were being made by now – those were five minutes he’d be happy to have. 

And who knew, maybe Jenny would take note of his sudden use of the company account and alert Starfleet -- or his Mom, which would amount to practically the same thing.  Although knowing Jenny, she’d probably just start sending him chirpy messages teasing him about finally succumbing to the lure of his own money. 

Tom headed out the door and back to the transporter station at a leisurely pace, deliberately ignoring the hovercraft that was speeding towards the establishment he had just left.  Its occupants, in turn, paid no intention to the civilian outworld tourist with the gift bag from the Andorian ice caves.

So far so good.  Problem was, he was woefully underequipped for what he might have to do next. 

A number of turns down increasingly dodgy streets brought Tom out beside what looked like a seedy but exceedingly well-stocked electronics store.  His instincts had been right – when he entered, the store did have a small but fairly exclusive section of weapons, which in Andoria with its history of internecine warfare pretty well had to be freely available, even if only for show. 

But it didn’t have what he was really looking for – at least not on open display.

Drawing again on his Proton account – this time it felt a tad more appropriate – Tom acquired a regenerative phaser that had drawn his attention from the second he saw it; it was a beautiful weapon, matte black metal, nice weight, fully charged.  And definitely not cheap.  Enough to make the salesman drool a little when he realized his outworld customer seemed to be rather well-heeled, despite the scruffy-looking jacket.

Having softened the guy up with a major purchase, Tom decided it was time to turn on the charm, and take a risk. 

“I love Andoria,” he lied, two days of relentless practice permitting him to infuse the statement with just the right amount of sincerity.  “The only thing I _don’t_ like is the cold.  Things would be _fantastic_ here, absolutely perfect, if only I could lay my hands on a portable site-to-site transporter.  Then I wouldn’t be freezing my sorry butt off every time I have to go aboveground.  Or have to rely on the public transports when the masses start rolling in for the Big Party day after tomorrow.  I have a problem with crowds, you see.”

The man drew a sharp breath.  Portable site-to-site transporters were illegal in many worlds, not easy to come by even in places were they weren’t, and hideously expensive everywhere.  Tom was beginning to think he had overplayed his hand, when the man beckoned him into a back room. 

Hand on his newly acquired phaser, secured in a second-hand holster the salesman had thrown in with the purchase, Tom followed him into the private area, scanning the walls and cupboards for potential traps as he went.  But as it turned out, his host was merely a businessman out for a quick few thousand credits, and didn’t even object to the use of an account rather than insist on non-traceable latinum.  A deal was quickly struck.

Tom shook hands with the elated salesman, whose antennae were dancing in pure satisfaction when it was confirmed that his client was, in fact, good for the rather obscene price he had tossed out as his first offer.  Tom briefly regretted that he had no time for haggling; _this_ purchase Jenny would definitely notice.  Knowing her, she would probably try and make him write a new Proton chapter to atone for the dent he had just made into their little enterprise’s holdings.

Tom left the store, stopped briefly in an alleyway to enter certain coordinates into the device, and stuck his purchase into the bag with Miral’s crystal puzzle before heading to the public transporter station.

He had observed with approval the pattern enhancers outside all the transport stations, large units obviously intended to facilitate underground transport for all levels.  They were present all through the subterranean city -- useful things on which his illicit little acquisition could comfortably hitch a free ride.

Once Tom was back at the station, it was only a matter of loudly requesting Level Two for the benefit of the station’s security recordings, and engaging the site-to-site unit just as the tingle of the public transport started to touch his skin.  Ah, the things you learn in prison...

 

…..

 

Tom felt a palpable sense of relief when he materialized on the Delta Flyer, the familiar surroundings and the presence of a functioning helm console providing at least a modicum of the control that he had felt spinning away from him during the last few hours.  A quick scan of the interior revealed that there had been no unauthorized entry, and sensor readings confirmed no external tampering.  The Andorians had obviously not reckoned with the possibility that a lone Starfleet officer without winter gear would find his way to the shuttle port quite this quickly, if at all.  Moreover, the security perimeters did not appear to have been reinforced.  Tom dropped the bag with Miral’s gift on the floor beside the console and cracked his knuckles.

“Fucking amateurs,” Tom mumbled, contemptuously but not ungratefully, as he blew out three of the force field’s relay towers with quick phaser bursts and engaged the Flyer’s thrusters.  He corkscrewed the Flyer out of Andor’s atmosphere on maximum impulse and twirled her around the ring of satellites and planetary defence stations in a smug and audacious display of piloting grace. 

It was good to be home.

The hails came quickly, and were resolutely ignored.  “Starfleet shuttle, you are not authorized to leave Andorian airspace.”  “Starfleet shuttle, open channel.”  “Starfleet shuttle, disengage thrusters immediately and …”

Tom uttered a colourful Klingon curse and went to warp, well before clearing the space between Andor and the planet it orbited.  _That ought to shut them_ up, he thought vindictively, apart from hopefully allowing potential pursuers to assume that he was taking the Flyer much farther than he actually intended to.  He knew perfectly well, moreover, that the maneuver violated every safety protocol in the Starfleet piloting manual, as well as a number of Federation regulations for intra-system traffic.  But these weren’t ordinary times, Tom figured, and if the Andorians felt strongly enough about it, they could always give him a ticket.

He set a course for the Enterprise’s last coordinates, but quickly reconsidered and adjusted it instead to bring the Flyer out of warp on the opposite side of the geostationary orbit the ship should be occupying.  Might as well have a peek first and gauge the lay of the land before committing himself.

Modulating the Flyer’s sensors to bounce signals off the two moons that were circling the planet, Tom managed to obtain the reading he has been looking for, from the far side of the planet – yes, the Enterprise was there, but she was not alone.  _Shit._ Four Andorian warships encircled her, in a formation that certainly explained their ability to silence her comms systems as thoroughly as they evidently had.

Tom considered his options.  Clearly, the Flyer was no match for four warships.  First priority was to call for back-up; if he hadn’t been able to reach the Enterprise or raise Starfleet from Andor, chances were that the ship hadn’t been able to communicate with Starfleet either.  Here, on the other side of the outer planet, things might be possible.

He punched in the codes for Starfleet Tactical Command, high priority channel, maximum shielding and encryption, using his personal command code for authorization. 

As luck would have it, it was early morning in San Francisco and Alpha shift had just taken over in the ops centre; the last thing he had wanted to do was have to deal with a sleepy second-string overnighter.  Even so, he had to convince a skeptical Lieutenant that yes, this was the Enterprises’s XO, yes he was calling out of uniform, and yes, he did require a direct line to Admiral Nacheyev’s new Chief of Staff. 

_Now.  If the man valued his future career._

Tom was a firm believer in the principle that if you wanted to get anything done in Starfleet, business, or politics, don’t rely on channels -- call a friend.  He was therefore greatly relieved when Jarod Tervellyan, his erstwhile classmate at the Jim Kirk Centre, came into view.

Jarod had started working with Fleet Admiral Alynna Nacheyev – despite dozens of well-meaning interventions, including several from Tom Paris – only a month before, about the same time Tom had taken on the assignment on the Enterprise.  He hadn’t had to weather a major crisis yet, and had yet to suffer the Arctic blast of the Ice Queen’s wrath over some imaginary transgression or other; accordingly, he was disgustingly upbeat when he took Tom’s call.

“Hey Paris, what’s up?  Whoa, cool jacket, man.  You tired of being back in uniform already?”

“Look Jarod, no time to chat.  There’s something going down on Andor.  Haven’t figured out what yet.  They arrested Riker …” 

“They _what_?” 

“Shut up and listen.  They may jam me up any second.  They took Riker and have the Enterprise surrounded, all comms are blocked.  I’m on my own on the Flyer.  Request immediate back-up for the ship.  The diplomatic shindig Nacheyev sent us here for may be used as an occasion for a coup.  No idea yet why they apparently went after the Enterprise, but it may be to secure the Federation’s cooperation, or just to make it look like we approve of what’s happening and are content to sit back and watch.  Or, it could have something to do with the DNA sample we sent to …  _Shit_.”

Tom slammed his hand on the console in frustration as the screen turned dark.  That had not taken long, but he hoped that Trevelyan had gotten the main message and would initiate some kind of action. 

As for himself, it was time to get moving or turn into a sitting duck.

Sure enough, a squadron of six shuttles, presumably originating from the battleships surrounding the Enterprise, approached the Flyer in a pincer movement from both sides of the planet and started firing as soon as they had cleared the horizon.  It was all he needed, when all he wanted was time to think.

“I don’t have time for this,” Tom ground out between his teeth.  He engaged thrusters and readied phasers for fire, when a sudden idea struck him.  He may not be able to comm the Enterprise, but he could _show_ them that he had gotten away before high-tailing it out of the system.  Presumably, the windows would still be working.

Peeling off at a sharp angle to fly over the Northern pole of the planet, Tom clenched his jaw grimly at the sight of his ship, surrounded by four Andorian battle cruisers.  They were in siege rather than attack formation; no matter how you cut it, it made no sense for Andoria to want to draw the Federation into a war.  It therefore seemed clear that what he was observing was a classic, deliberately engineered standoff – parties peeping at each other over their respective parapets – likely initiated by some guy in a suit for Kahless knew what political purpose.

But with hostiles already firing on him personally, Tom felt absolutely no compunction about engaging his pursuers.  Fuck the parapet thing.  If it _was_ a standoff, all he had to do was demonstrate to the Enterprise that the cruisers would not be drawn into the little skirmish he was about to have, and if he provided them with a sufficiently provocative spectacle, his crew would also realize that he had already alerted Starfleet.

Now, if someone had asked Tom Paris what his favourite things were, and that person was a close friend – say, Harry Kim -- he would probably have produced a list featuring activities such as making love to B’Elanna, cuddling Miral, skiing, listening to jazz, watching cartoons and flying anything with or without wings.  For a lesser acquaintance, he would have edited out the first item.  But would that list have included aerial combat?  Probably not, as he wouldn’t have thought about it as something he actually enjoyed _per se,_ but anyone watching him at this very moment might have been excused for believing otherwise.

Eyes sparkling, feral grin etched on his face, the stress of the awful monotony of last couple of days washed away by the relief of being shot at with live ammunition and able to fire back, Thomas Eugene Paris used the Flyer to paint a corkscrew pattern into the star-lit blackness of space -- in plain view of the Enterprise’s bridge and the observation ports in Ten Forward -- and punctuated it with phaser bursts. 

“Commander!”  Harry Kim gasped.  “It’s the Flyer!”  He punched his console desperately, trying to establish communications, knowing he would fail.  His sensors still worked, though, and he was able to announce, “One life sign.  Human.”

“Can you tell whether it is the Captain or Commander Paris?”  Jorak asked, in as eager a tone as his Vulcan self would permit.

The Flyer did a complete overhead loop, hanging momentarily upside down at the apex, the slight delay resulting in three of the enemy shuttles shooting past and underneath it.  With almost casual grace the Flyer let off three targeted shots straight into the Andorian shuttles’ aft nacelles, causing one to explode and the other two to drift away like moths that had come too close to a flame.  O’Reilly let out a quiet “Holy shit!”

“That would be Tom,” Harry said, shaking his head, as the Flyer pulled another crazy maneuver to get between the three remaining shuttles and one of the Andorian battle cruisers, just as one of the shuttles locked on and fired.  The Flyer performed a quick vertical corkscrew, neatly evading the shot, which instead blasted a hole into the Andorian mother ship’s hull.  Harry could practically hear his best friend’s voice letting out a sardonic, and insufferably smug, ‘ _Whoops’._

“Man, that guy is nuts,” O’Reilly breathed in blissful admiration.  The stories were true …

“No, I do not believe that Commander Paris’ judgment is impaired,” Jorak observed matter-of-factly, his Vulcan logic failing to appreciate that the Lieutenant’s statement was not intended as an actual commentary on the First Officer’s mental state.  “In fact, he appears to be testing the readiness of the Andorians to engage their main battleships, presumably for our benefit.  And the message appears to be clear – neither of the major vessels are powering up their weapons.  In fact, their shuttles now appear to have been called back.”

Clear of pursuers, the Flyer carried out one last fly-by, nacelles wiggling in the classic victory salute of days gone by, before going to warp provocatively close to the Andorian ship whose hull was still smouldering.  The ship was flung back a considerable distance by the percussive effect of the warp field build-up, but appeared to suffer no further damage.  The Andorians made no effort at pursuit.

Harry hissed a soft “Yesss!”  In a somewhat more professional tone he added “I guess you’re right, Commander – we just learned that for now, those ships’ instructions seem to be not to take any drastic action that might provoke the Enterprise.”

Jorak raised an eyebrow.  “I also believe that we can safely assume Commander Paris has now successfully escaped the Andorian efforts at blocking communications, and that Starfleet will be alerted to the situation here in short order, if it has not been already.  It is unfortunate, however, that we were unable to communicate with him directly to find out what may have happened to Captain Riker, given that the Commander was apparently on his own.”

“Wait a minute.”  Harry punched a few commands into his console.  “They jammed all known space and subspace frequencies,” he said, “but I wonder …” A minute later, his flat hand hit the metal in triumph.  “Got it!  I knew it.”

“Pray enlighten us, Lieutenant,” Jorak said, his usually infinite patience tinged with just the slightest bit of Vulcan irritation.

“Long-wave frequency, old Earth method of communication, operating on such a low band it only works over very short distances.  Totally useless in space.  Tom and I … the Commander and I used it in … err … a holo-program we ran on Voyager.  That last fly-by brought him close enough to us to use it.”

Harry made a few adjustments, and the bridge crew heard their First Officer’s voice, slightly breathless and distorted:  “Andorians are playing political games.  Suspect coup attempt.  Captain Riker is in custody – likely hostage.  Starfleet alerted, hopefully will send reinforcements.  Jorak, hold tight and avoid escalation.  I’ll try for a hostage exchange for the Captain.  Paris out.”

“Hostage exchange?”  Deanna Troi, who had remained silent and tense during the dogfight, finally found her voice.  “Does that mean Tom has someone whom he believes they would take in exchange for Will?  I thought he was alone on that ship.”

“No.”  B’Elanna’s voice carried loud and clear across the bridge; no one had noticed her arrival.  “If I know my husband at all, and I think I do, that means that he’s going to _get_ that someone.  Wherever he or she is.”

 


	8. In Rome Do As The Romans Do

 

_"Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are."_

_Niccolo Macchiavelli_

 

Later, when Tom was questioned about his actions, he was never able to tell exactly when he had decided to go find the allegedly missing heir to the Andorian Imperium; but the ‘why’ was never really in issue.

Andorian forces had arrested his Captain, and were surrounding his ship.  The ship whose safety not only had been entrusted to him as First Officer, but that, while the Captain’s fate was unknown, was his responsibility.  A ship that carried his family, and over 1,200 people whose names and faces he saw before him as clearly as he saw the Flyer’s console – all surrounded by four Andorian battleships. 

Luckily it seemed that at this point, whoever was holding the cards on Andor did not seem to be inclined to tip their hand, or to go beyond ensuring that the Enterprise could not interfere in their plans.  _At this point_.  But whether Starfleet would be in a position to heed his call for assistance or not, the Enterprise was the first ship in the line of fire should things change and the balance tip in favour of whichever forces were putting their fingers on it.

As far as Tom was concerned he had two options – do nothing and wait for Starfleet to arrive, or try and obtain a trump card that might just reset that balance, both in the short and the long term.  A card he was uniquely placed to find, if it was in fact out there to be found, and that it would be counter-productive to try and retrieve with an armada. 

He had the time, abundant motive, and ample opportunity.  

If Rahm Theraan’s story was on the level – and by now he had learned enough of Andorians and their penchant for the dramatic to believe it just might be – the Imperial heir’s last known destination was Nardik space station.  The name rang a vague bell, but Tom had never been there himself; both his service pre-Voyager and his short-lived stint with the Maquis had been in different sectors, close to the Cardassian DMZ but never near one of the outposts by the Neutral Zone. 

With the Flyer on autopilot, Tom carried out a little research.  What came up on the screen was a disturbingly familiar description of every rat’s nest, hell-hole or cesspool of a stopover on the way to nowhere that he had ever encountered across two Quadrants, drunk or sober. 

Even without first-hand knowledge he knew the kind of place it was, intimately.  He could taste the ashes of lost days and nights in his mouth; could feel the rough, sticky floorboards on his hands and knees, and the bile rise in his throat from too many drinks and too many fears and disappointments he had tried, but failed, to swallow. 

The kind of place he had hoped never to see again.

Tom shivered involuntarily, looked down at his hands as if to confirm they were clean, no longer shaking with the need to find oblivion in a glass.  His wedding ring gleamed in the Flyer’s interior light and the fingers of his right had gripped it convulsively -- an anchor to the reality he now inhabited.

He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs of his past.  If he was to have any hope of finding the missing princess – provided there _was_ a missing princess to be found – this is where it would have to start, shitty memories and unresolved psych baggage be damned.

_Get a grip, Paris.  You’re a goddamn Starfleet Officer.  You’re no longer a loser and a lush.  You can go in there without getting lost.  Even without Harry to keep your feet on the ground._

Question was, what to do once he got there. 

First things first -- a spot of planning wouldn’t hurt.  Clearly, arriving at a place like Nardik in the latest, shiniest example of Starfleet shuttle technology would be asking for trouble.  Time to prematurely age the Flyer and to remove its identifying markings, at least to the point where it looked as if someone had made a bit of an effort to hide the origins of stolen goods. 

Tom consulted his star charts for proximate gas giants, and was relieved when he located one in the Daronian system, a mere half light-year away.  The composition of the outer atmosphere was perfect; the fact that the planet had rings was a bonus.

He approached the gas giant from its Northern pole, ardently and without success wishing for Harry’s presence at the ops console as he calculated the depth to which he could enter the atmosphere.  Tom reversed shield polarization and dove in, silently apologizing to the Flyer as her hull was quickly coated with particles that he and Tuvok had specifically designed the multiphasic shielding to protect it against.  Then he dipped into the rings, shields down altogether, cringing a little at the sound of minute particles pelting – and denting -- the hull.

Enough.  Time to check his handiwork.  A quickly launched external probe revealed a hull that looked like it belonged on a scrap yard – blacked in some places and pock-marked with tiny dents throughout.  Most gratifying were the spots where a fortuitous build-up of H2O from the gas giant’s atmosphere and iron-rich dust from the rings had resulted in a (hopefully) superficial but fairly convincing appearance of rust.  The Starfleet markings, NCC-1701E, were visible only if you knew where to look and actively bothered to do so. 

It would have to do.

“Poor baby,” Tom muttered apologetically as he patted the Flyer’s console.  “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.  If we get back in one piece, I’ll clean you by hand, I swear.  I’ll even ask Miral to help.  She loves washing things, and I know how much you like each other.”  He recalled the probe and set a course for Nardik.

The Flyer looked after, Tom contemplated his own appearance.  In light of their high-profile mission he had succumbed to B’Elanna’s not-so-oblique suggestion that he cut his hair – a nice, short, clean, cut that practically screamed ‘Starfleet’.  _Shit._

Tom knew that he would have zero chance of obtaining any cooperation or information whatsoever in a place like Nardik, if people smelled the Federation on his breath.  And for all he knew, the missing princess and her putative escort were headed towards the Neutral Zone – why else come to this place to begin with?  That would make Federation involvement even less desirable.

He scrounged through the onboard medkit to see if there was anything to stimulate follicular growth – maybe he could take care of his hairline while he was at it …?  _Focus, Paris.  Besides, B’Elanna would laugh at you._

All there was were the standard hypo sprays, dermal regenerator, Class II osteo-regenerator, and a number of baseline surgical instruments he had added personally, remembering his inability to properly deal with Ensign Wildman’s injuries during their accident in the Delta Quadrant.  Maybe the Doc or Beverly Crusher could use those things for cosmetic alterations, but his own background was limited to emergency medicine.

There had to be a way to scruff himself up a little though, like he’d done with the Flyer, or he might as well paint a target on his forehead.  Tom peeled off the brand-new ribbed turtleneck he was still wearing and looked at the white T-shirt underneath.  Better.  More working class.  Not enough, though.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror again, and with his neck now exposed, his eye was caught by the slightly thickened skin, the almost invisible scar tissue over his jugular vein.

 _No.  Oh, shit._

All judicial systems in the Federation marked their convicts – indelibly, irreversibly, traceably -- pursuant to Article 57(1) of the _Unified Federation Standards for the Registration, Transfer and Treatment of Offenders_.  Some of the more humanely inclined systems would treat the markings so they would not be visible to the naked eye, usually after release. 

Earth’s government had initially resisted the provisions during the treaty’s negotiation, but had eventually been forced to accept it in exchange for certain concessions on transfers between jurisdictions, and an undesirable preambular paragraph or other.  The give and take of diplomacy.  Win one, lose one.  The final outcome meant little to those drafting the language.

The Terran practice was to cover the markings as soon as they were put in place; tattooing numbers on people in detention was, after all, rather too close to a certain horrific chapter in the planet’s history.  But the numbers were still carved into the skin of every person convicted of a criminal offence carrying a sentence of imprisonment -- even on Earth.  Indelibly, irreversibly, traceably.

It would do.  The best disguise is usually one that isn’t a disguise at all.  Hide in plain sight.

_You don’t know whether it can be covered a second time._

_Beverly Crusher can reverse this, if anyone can.  Or the EMH, back home._

_You hope_.

What did they drill into the officers in the Advanced Tactical and Strategic Command course at the Jim Kirk Centre?  “Battles are won on many fronts.  Weapons come in many shapes.  Make your own.”  _Or become your own._

Tom took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, closed his eyes – willing himself to hear the one voice he would call on more than on any other when the going got tough, when you just had to punch your way through.  Gravelly, determined:  _Do it, Tom._

Tom picked up the dermal regenerator, weighed it in his hand.  He checked the settings, carefully adjusted them to remove the outer epidermis layer by layer, gritted his teeth and ran it gently over his neck, once, twice, three times, growing more determined and grim with each passage.

Slowly, the blue markings appeared on the reddening skin of his neck:  TEP-FPSNZ-ISN0766.   _Thomas Eugene Paris, Federal Penal Settlement New Zealand, Inmate Serial Number 0766._

The mark of Auckland.  The reminder of his own personal hell, now visible to all.

Tom swallowed hard.  He’d never actually seen the mark; it had been covered with scar tissue right after being carved into his skin -- all right and proper, _let’s pretend we love our prisoners, don’t let the world see there are still criminals around_. 

But he had always known it was there, as surely as he knew his own name.  Unerasable by the pardon he had been given upon his return from the Delta Quadrant.  Unaffected by whatever partial absolution for past mistakes that he had granted himself.  Untouched by the respect of his peers, by the acceptance of Starfleet, and by the love of his wife -- this mark was his to bear.

Tom’s eyes turned to flint as the crescendo of memories threatened his equilibrium, and he had to touch his hand to the Flyer’s interior wall to steady himself.  A wave of nausea washed over him until the pain of the peeled skin brought him back to the now.  Tom reset the dermal regenerator and ran it over his neck back lightly to soothe the irritation, and bring back the regular skin tone surrounding the blue.

He took another look in the mirror.  Starfleet haircut and clean fingernails notwithstanding, what stared back at him now was an ex-convict, marked and branded as such. 

One of many in a place like Nardik. 

It would do.  For his Captain and for his ship, both trapped; for his family onboard.

He had to remember that.  He _would_ remember.

 

…..

 

The space station was as unprepossessing from the outside as Tom expected it to be from the inside.  A poor cousin to the Federation’s Deep Space models, it consisted of a single ring around a conical centre, with rickety looking spokes and exterior docking spaces for some forty or so space craft.  It did not look as if it could handle anything above the size of a medium-range trader; Federation ships above Intrepid class would have been unable to berth, and would need to conduct any business with the station via shuttlecraft.

A bored but shifty-looking man whose parentage looked to have included half a dozen Alpha Quadrant races responded to Tom’s hail.  “Identify yourself, shuttle” he barked officiously, but it was clear his heart wasn’t in it.  Tom responded by drawing himself up in the pilot’s chair, making sure the man could see the mark on his neck.  Somehow, knowing it was there made it a lot easier to become someone else.

“Send me your coordinates, and I’ll send you my identification,” he drawled suggestively.  The man’s eyes widened, and he scanned the room behind him before punching a few numbers into his console.  Tom suppressed a smirk as they appeared on his screen.  Some people were just too easy to read.

Tom went to the storage compartment, entered his command codes, retrieved what he was looking for and set it on the transporter pad.  Not too much, not too little -- it was important to get the quantities just right.  Too little, Goldilocks might get bitten;  too much, the guy would ask for more before delivering. 

Keying in the sequence he had been given, Tom returned to his seat just in time to watch a few slivers of latinum appear on the console in front of the space station attendant.

“Identification satisfactory,” the man smirked, a little more lively now.  “You’re free to dock, berth Alpha North 47.”  He hesitated a moment before purring, “Anything else I can do for you, _Captain …_?” 

The honorific wasn’t lost on Tom.  The guy was open for business.  He _had_ gotten it just right.

“Yes, actually,” he smirked back, leaving his eyes cold.  “I’m looking for a gig, and maybe you might be able to assist.  I heard a rumour on Eccos 3 that a couple of Andorians were looking for transport out of here, under … shall we say, _complicated_ arrangements.  You know whether they’ve found a fare?  If not, me and my trusty old ship here would be happy to serve.”  He twisted his mouth into a leer.  “I hear one of them’s a looker, and I have … a _serious_ thing for the colour blue, if you know what I mean.”

The attendant was now grinning broadly.  “Yeah, I do know what you mean.  Never had an Andorian myself, but if the rumours are true …” He licked his lips suggestively and waggled his eyebrows.  Tom suppressed an involuntary gagging reflex.  _This is a game, Paris.  Play._

“Well?” he drawled.  “You know whether they’ve left yet?” 

The man shot him a calculating look.  Tom took the hint and went back to the transporter pad.  Another couple of slivers of latinum appeared before the dispatcher, who was clearly beginning to sense a good thing.

“Still here,” he said, “and still available, far as I know.  They’re _both_ lookers, but one of them is a seriously tough bitch.  No one’s been wanting to touch her, and she keeps the younger one well away from public view.”

Tom’s mind raced.  The ‘younger one’ sounded like Rahm Theraan’s publicity-shy friend, alright. But the other?  The putative Imperial guard with the princess was a woman as well?  Interesting. 

“I think their ride may have developed some … problems.  They forgot to pay … certain ‘station fees’, and some parts may have gone missing.  Heard Ciccone was looking to take them out on an onward trip tomorrow, though.  You’ll probably find him at Finnegan’s, pissed to the gills.  He’s usually willing to … deal.” 

The guy was getting downright chatty now.  “Don’t worry about those ‘station fees’ yourself, Captain; you’re good.  But that’s an interesting ride you got there.  Haven’t seen that model before.  What is it anyway?” 

Tom pursed his lips and shook his head, _uh-uh_.  The man got it -- information exchange was strictly a one-way street here.  He shrugged his acceptance.

Tom inclined his head slightly, signaling the conclusion of their mutually profitable little chat.  “Thank you, kind sir.  You have been _most_ helpful.  I trust we can do business again soon.” 

_Always leave them wanting more._

He docked the Flyer and secured her systematically, setting a series of intruder alerts in addition to the encryptions that he knew would make it impossible for virtually anyone but himself to take her out of her berth -- anyone except B’Elanna and Harry, that was, who had helped install the protections.  Tom sighed as he allowed himself the brief luxury of dwelling on all the unpleasant aspects of being out here on his own.

B’Elanna.  Tom felt her absence physically, an emptiness that could not be filled.  His eyes drifted down to his hand again, to the ring that had grounded him earlier, when he had needed a tangible reminder that he was no longer the person who drifted through bars in a fog of his own making. 

When B’Elanna had put that ring on his finger, that day of the Antarian race – disshevelled, dirty, the smoke from plasma fires still smudging her cheeks, her smile as radiant as the twin suns of Enarra – Tom had known his search was over.  He had found what he had been looking for all his life, even before knowing what it was, unbelieving it could ever be his.

Tom’s fingers twisted the ring on his finger.  The person he needed to become, if he wanted to survive the next twenty-four hours – if he wanted to be able to return to B’Elanna with all his body parts intact and an Andorian princess in tow – was not the type to wear such a ring. 

Silently asking her to forgive him, knowing she would, he took it off, slowly and painfully; the first time in nearly three years, holding it in his hand and letting the Flyer’s lights glint off it again.  If removing the scar tissue from the Auckland mark brought back unwanted reminders of who he used to be, removing the ring felt like a betrayal of who he had become. 

Tom closed his eyes tightly as sudden doubts threatened to stifle his breathing.  He had called B’Elanna his ‘alarm clock’ before; he might need to call on her again.  The conclusion was obvious.  He could deny his present reality to the scum that inhabited Nardik station, but he would not deny B’Elanna to himself. 

Tom strode over to the replicator and ordered a small chain on his personal account.  He looped his ring through and hooked the chain around his neck, securing it under his T-shirt.  Patting it, he gave a small smile.  She would be there with him, right over his heart, and to hell with those who would scoff at the ‘mushy stuff’.

 

Time for another short message to Starfleet; at least there would be no jamming here, just an imperative to encrypt and remove the Starfleet signature from the transmission.  Tom mentally thanked the Kirk Centre for their short but useful course on covert communications. 

He had less trouble getting through to Tervellyan in Nacheyev’s office this time -- an encouraging sign, even though he was not using a Starfleet frequency and getting audio only.  Just as well; he’d rather not have a discussion about his appearance right now. 

“Jarod, in case anyone needs to look for me, I’m at Nardik Space Station.  There’s something here that may help break up whatever game the Andorians are playing, and I’ve come to get it.  Sorry can’t be more specific.  Can you get me a sitrep from your end, for public consumption in case the line has squatters?”

“We’ve confirmed that your home base is unreachable, and been able to corroborate the blockade you mentioned.  We’re planning to send you some big cousins to help out but they’re at least two days away, and still require parental consent before they can do anything.  No trace of your boss.  Oh, and temperate shit is apparently being given through civilian channels.”

Tom smiled reflexively at his friend’s characterization of the politicking that was doubtless happening within Federation circles, even as he himself was about to dive headlong into one of the more sordid hellholes in the Quadrant to hopefully add a variable or two into the mix.  And while it was disconcerting to learn that there was no news of Riker, at least there was hope that Starfleet would be showing its teeth, however late. 

Provided their political masters approved.

“Understood, Jarod.  I’ll let you have news from my end when I can.  Try to chat tomorrow, same time. Paris out.”  At least Starfleet would know where to look for him, if he didn’t check in within the next twenty-four hours. 

As he strapped on his expensive new weapon and filled his pockets with a number of other essentials, he hoped that would not be necessary.


	9. Talk is Cheap – Results Cost Extra

 

_“People never lie so much as after a hunt, during a war or before an election.”_

_Otto von Bismarck_

 

Will Riker glared at the Andorian who had been their ‘liaison officer,’ and who now seemed to gloat over the fact that the man to whom he had bowed obsequiously less than a day ago was now a captive, his to taunt.

The facility where they had taken Riker was not uncomfortable, but it was just as clearly a prison as if it had bars on the window and was infested with rats.  He had been given a small suite complete with private hygiene facilities and a food-only replicator, but his activities were limited to a one-way screen that seemed to be permanently set to show preparations of the forthcoming Imperial Presentation, and a handful of PADDs that seemed to relate to a first year university course entitled something like _Terran Literature Through the Ages:  The Low Lights._

Tored Paak watched Riker’s pacing with mounting irritation.  “Really Captain, you should just relax.  There is nothing to fear, provided you behave, and your ship is in no immediate danger, provided it behaves.”  He tittered a little.  “Of course, it _can’t leave_ the Andorian system, but then again it would not want to, given the changes that are about to take place here on Andor.”

Riker resisted the urge to throttle the man.  “And pray enlighten me why my ship needs to be surrounded by Andorian battle cruisers in order to witness those _changes_?”  In response to the Captain’s earlier irate demands to be allowed to contact the Enterprise, Paak had taken great delight in explaining just _how difficult_ it would be to initiate such communications, and in reassuring Riker how _secure and protected_ his ship nonetheless was.

“Oh, Captain, you must know that it is not my place to provide such explanation.  I am but a small cog in a giant wheel that will be turning to work marvelous changes upon Andoria soon, very soon.”

“No need to reassert your insignificance to me, _Mr._ Paak, _that_ was clear to me from the moment I clapped eyes you,” Riker snarled, no longer willing to keep up even the pretense of politesse.  “What I do want you to do though, is to take me to whoever _can_ provide me with an explanation, and answer to the violations of every known Federation treaty concerning the conduct of inter-planetary relations and the role and treatment of Starfleet.”

Paak tittered again.  “Oh, all will be revealed in due course, Captain, just as soon as we have retrieved your very annoying companion.”  He hesitated a split second, realizing he had said too much, and looked sideways in the hope that his slip hadn’t been noticed.  “So why don’t you just accept your situation with good grace and relax.”

Riker observed him through hooded eyes, pretending not to have understood the implications of what he had just heard.  So they still hadn’t caught Tom, after nearly 24 hours …?  He suppressed a grin at the thought of Tom Paris, who could be a serious pain in the ass of any given authority even when he wasn’t trying, leading whoever was calling the shots here around by the nose. 

But more importantly, Riker had little doubt that his legendarily resourceful XO would have wasted no time finding out about the Enterprise’s situation, and would by now have found a way to alert Starfleet.  Since his captors, at least at present, displayed no intention to actually cause him harm, Riker decided the best thing for now would be to play along and look for opportunities to escape – the first duty of the prisoner of war.

“Maybe you’re right.  But you have got to admit, there’s very little to do here.  How be you retrieve the bag your goons took from my room and let me have my deck of cards?”

 

…..

 

Riker was laying his fifteenth set of solitaire when the door to his quarters chimed.  Resisting the urge to call “come in”, he continued to place his cards slowly, methodically, refusing to look up even as the footfall of his visitor stopped before him.

Chancellor Erdon Erdilev curtly dismissed the protocol officer and stared down at the Captain, waiting for a reaction.  None came.  Riker carefully placed a Queen of Spades on the King of Diamonds, turning over and contemplating the card that had been freed as a result of the move.

“Great game, solitaire,” Riker remarked into the air before him.  “Passes the time when there’s nothing else to do but count the number of inter-galactic treaties breached, violations of diplomatic immunity and abuses of the due process of law.  Not to mention the ordinary crimes like kidnapping, assault, and involuntary confinement …”

He finally looked up at Erdilev, betraying absolutely no shock when he realized the identity of his visitor.  “There are fifty-two cards in an ordinary deck of cards.  I’ve counted forty-seven infractions so far, but I’m sure I can come up with five more.  Then I’ll start on the potential retaliatory moves open to Starfleet.”  He put down the Ace of Spades thoughtfully.  “I hear the most recent generation of tri-cobalt devices is capable of penetrating up to ten kilometres underground.”

The Chancellor lost his patience.  With one broad sweep of his hand he wiped most of the game off the table and snarled, “Enough!”

The Captain raised an eyebrow, and his voice.  “My sentiments exactly, dear Chancellor.  _Enough_.  I demand to be released and returned to my ship, with an explanation and an apology to Starfleet.”

Erdilev crossed his arms before his chest.  “You are in absolutely no position to make demands, Captain,” he snarled.  “What I want to know is what orders you gave that man of yours.” 

Paak’s slip had been for real.  Tom Paris was out there, and making the Andorians nervous.  _Good._

“’My man’, you say?  Oh, I wouldn’t know what he’s up to.  He can be very enterprising, when he wants to be.  Me, on the other hand, I’ve been in his lovely room for a day now, counting the ceiling tiles, playing cards, trying very hard not to strangle your Mr. Paak.” 

 _Had Tom made it to the Flyer?_ “I bet the Commander gave you all kinds of trouble when he left?  Those little shuttles of ours are capable of causing quite considerable mayhem, in the right hands.” 

Erdilev glared and gritted his teeth.  _Bullseye._   If Tom had gotten away on the Flyer, Starfleet had been informed.  Maybe he had even managed to wreak a little havoc in the process.  Riker relaxed a little and went back to his solitaire game.

“You do not seem to appreciate, Captain, that what is happening here in Andoria is very important for the development of our society, which has been unable to take proper economic advantage of its position under the Shran dynasty.  Imperial rule in Andoria changes every few generations, and The Time Has Come.“

Riker did not even bother to feign interest.  In his experience, the best way to get politicians to talk was to ignore them.  This one proved not to be an exception.

“Surely you must agree that Andoria’s prosperity requires both ingenuity and innovation.  Something the Emperor, the Shran family and their associates have failed to provide.  In fact, Narov Shran has condemned any attempts by my own family to seek economic betterment for Andoria.”  The Chancellor’s fist closed compulsively around his ceremonial dagger, and his jaw tightened a little.

“These insults cannot be allowed to stand.  It is time for the rule of Andor to pass again into the hands of a clan worthy of the task.  The Erdilev family for one will be ready to shoulder the burden.  And others of the clans will stand with us.”

The Captain looked up at that.  “And I presume all of these marvelous changes will be happening … in the very near future?” he asked blandly.

The Chancellor smiled in evident self-satisfaction.  “Indeed they will.  But Starfleet must not interfere; that is why the Andorian Planetary Defence Force has been directed to secure your ship, and Mr. Paak here to ensure your personal … cooperation.  When it becomes known that the Enterprise was here the entire time, the people of Andoria and the entire sector will come to realize that the changes in the ruling family must have had the Federation’s blessing and support.”

Erdilev’s eyes took on a calculating look.  “We do trust that, with a view to ensuring the … ongoing safety of your ship, you will lend Starfleet’s and the Federation’s public support to the … announcement that will be made the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”  It was Riker’s turn to scowl.  “Starfleet will be here soon enough with other vessels to free my ship, and whatever little charade you have planned will be over.  In the meantime I’ll be right here, playing cards.  And if anything happens to me, Starfleet will make you regret the day you ever clapped eyes on this uniform.”

Erdilev smiled, a contortion of his lower facial muscles that did not involve his eyes. “I have become sufficiently familiar with Federation politics, my dear Captain, to know that nothing of the sort will happen.  Even if Starfleet sends ships, they will be ordered to hold their fire by the Federation Council.  Andoria is, after all, a member of the Federation, and we cannot have a public spat among friends, can we.  Disunity, so shortly after the Dominion war …?  It cannot be allowed to happen.  No, my dear Captain, the transition of power in Andoria will be a peaceful one, publicly supported by the Federation and hence by all the clans, including those with pretensions to the Throne.” 

He positively gloated now.  “And even if I am wrong, you told me yourself that there is no other Starfleet vessel within at least three days’ journey.”

Riker bit back the curse that threatened to cross his lips.  Tom had been right; he should not have discussed tactical information, even with a presumed ally.  That said, Erdilev was clearly warming up to his presentation now, and Riker saw no reason to stop him.  Get a guy like that monologuing, and you never know what nuggets of information he might let drop. 

“And all the rest of the representatives of the Federation assembled here on Andoria for the grand occasion will see the presence of the flagship and conclude that it is here to bless the return of the Erdilev dynasty to its rightful place in the Imperium.  Our Ambassador on Earth has done well to bring the Enterprise here.”

Erdilev smiled again, as if to convince himself of the correctness of his assessment, and picked up one of Riker’s cards – a King – and held it up.  “You see, my dear Captain – in your own Terran turn of phrase, I hold all the cards.”

Riker looked at him thoughtfully.  A nervous opponent makes mistakes; despite his smugness, Erdilev was clearly unhappy that Tom Paris and the Flyer had gotten away.  The question was why, given that he knew help was at least two or three days away, even if it were authorized to come?  If the Chancellor was right in his political calculation concerning Federation reticence to become involved – and Riker was not sufficiently naïve to doubt that he was -- what was out there that could be a threat to the Chancellor’s ‘grand changes’ that Tom could possibly work with?  Time to twist the needle a little.

“Actually, Chancellor, you have to watch those metaphors – they can easily run away from you.  Contrary to your assertion, you do not hold all the cards.  In fact, you’re not even playing with a full deck.”  Riker grinned his most wolfish grin as he pointed to the cards that were strewn on the floor. 

“You’ve admitted it yourself.  You’re missing the Jack of Hearts.”

 

…..

 

It didn’t take Tom very long to find Finnegan’s Bar.  Seeing the ‘Guinness franchise’ sign in the corner of the clichéd Irish sign outside – four-leaf shamrock, wouldn’t you know -- he gave silent thanks to his instinct not to let the famous Irish conglomerate acquire the rights to use his Fairhaven programme in its various establishments.  Even though Michael Sullivan was only a hologram, Tom would have been mortified to find a version of him in a place like this.  There was such a thing as sacrilege, Tom was pretty sure, and the faeries would not have been kind in their response.

He entered with a sigh, only to find his nostrils assaulted with every smell he had actively sought to dismiss from his life, in his ongoing effort to bury and suppress the many-coloured demons of the hell in which he once dwelled.  The spilled alcohol, the unwashed bodies, the uncontained bodily fluids – he felt like gagging, and almost did.

But despite its olfactory impact the place was relatively tame as space station bars went, in Tom’s experience.  Low rent, low cost, low clientele – none of it worth the attention of anyone with a serious agenda.  A quick scan of the room revealed no immediate threat, with the possible exception of the whores looking for business with a little too much eagerness and sharpened fingernails.  The rest of the desperate patrons were too far gone to warrant active concern.

Tom Paris squared his shoulders and stalked to the bar, growling a casual “wrong sex” at the sleazy half-Bolian female who accosted him with the promise of some highly improbable recreational activity. 

“Ciccone?” he barked imperiously at the bartender, dropping a small sliver of latinum on the counter before him.  He’d be damned if he ingested anything that filthy individual might serve, but information was worth a little something even here.

The barkeep, a mangy-looking Bajoran with a scar clear across his face and a haunted, defeated look on his face, swept the latinum off the counter in a practiced move and jerked his thumb across his shoulder.  The target of his gesture was an equally pathetic-looking human, with one of the worst comb-overs Tom had seen since Voyager’s EMH had asked B’Elanna to adjust his follicular matrix -- right after he had made a snide comment about her expertise with a dermal regenerator. 

Ciccone was clearly -- as presaged by the obviously well-informed docking dispatcher -- ‘pissed to the gills’.  Tom mentally gave the guy extra credit for pin-point accuracy.

He looked the object of his interest over carefully, feeling a brief and vehement resentment at the fact that such an individual would have the gall to call himself a pilot.  He was almost afraid to have a look at whatever bucket the guy was intending to fly. 

He leaned up against the bar beside the derelict human.  “Ciccone?” he asked again.  The man looked up at him through blood-shot eyes, trying to muster what limited bravado his drink would yield. 

“Who wants to know?”

“I do,” Tom said, his voice velvet on steel, his eyes as warm as a basilisk’s glare.  “Your own personal nemesis, unless you answer some questions, and answer them well.” 

His leather jacket opened a little as if by accident, causing the low light of the bar to shine off the black metal handle of his phaser.  Ciccone gulped.  Even drunk, it did not take too many of his remaining functional brain cells for him to realize that the man beside him was of a different breed than the usual pathetic backwash hanging out in Finnegan’s.

“Whaddya wanna know?” he slurred, attempting an ingratiating smile that displayed teeth that had not seen a toothbrush – let alone a dental regenerator – in years.  Tom forced himself not to recoil at breath rich with the memories of meals eaten days, if not weeks ago.  Clearly, a pilot fit for a princess this was not.

“The Andorians,” Tom purred.  “Where are you taking them, and when?”

Ciccone looked at him, eyes bleary but cunning.  Tom could practically see him calculate that his butt was safe for at least a few minutes, at least while his answer was pending.  “What’s it worth ta ya?” 

Tom leaned forward into the man’s face, biting back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat at the foul stench emanating from Ciccone’s breath, his unwashed shirt, his very being. 

“Not answering will earn you … unpleasantness you cannot even come close to imagining,” he growled.  “Answering well, on the other hand, may be worth your life, and perhaps …” he drawled out the rest in a husky whisper, “… a little something extra.”

Ciccone’s piggish eyes started to gleam.  “Neutral zone,” he breathed, as if giving Tom a gift above rubies.  “Nadoo IV.  Sightseeing, if you believe it.  Tomorrow.”  He held out his hand. 

Kahless, that guy was pathetic.  But likely on the level; Rahm Theraan’s supposition had been right.  Moreover, the destination sure explained why the Andorians had been forced to hire someone like Ciccone.  No pilot in his right mind would risk the journey.

Tom put a small sliver of latinum in the man’s unwashed palm and turned to the barkeep.  He motioned him over to where he was standing with a jerk of his head.  “You,” he said, “you got Romulan ale?”  He may as well have asked for Veuve Clicqot vintage 2365, based on the reaction he got from both the publican and his eager customer.

“Make sure my friend is well supplied.  And have one yourself, on me.”  After all, it seemed an appropriate enough drink under the circumstances.

Tom tossed another sliver of latinum on the bar that sent both the keep and Ciccone drooling.  Based on what the supposed pilot had apparently been drinking to get to where he was on the Richter scale of inebriation – a concoction that even from a distance smelled like a blend between methanol and paint stripper – a single glass of Romulan ale should knock him out and under the bar for at least twelve hours.

He turned back to Ciccone.  “One more thing, _my friend_.”  Ciccone gave another of his ingratiating, food remnant-rich smiles at the apparent change of tone in the voice of the man he now considered a personal benefactor rather than a threat. 

“Where can I find those Andorians you were taking out there?  I don’t see them here.”

Ciccone took a sip of the Romulan ale the barkeep had deposited before him.  Its effect was near instantaneous; his eyes glazed over with bliss almost immediately.  Tom prayed to the gods who looked after Starfleet officers attempting to impersonate stone-cold killers in third-rate bars, that the guy would stay upright long enough to answer.

 “Lovely ladies,” the pilot hiccupped.  “Shame colour as thish gorgeous drink.”  He cotemplated the glass and his content for a minute, Tom resisting the temptation to shake the information out of him. _Deep breath, Paris.  Don’t be too eager._

“They’re too good for this place.  Classy broads.  Sstarlight Inn, thash where they’re shtaying.  Ss’posed to meet the bitchy one in the lounge later, t’make arrangementsh.  Now c-c-can I ask you a queshton?”  Tom shrugged.

Ciccone pointed at Tom’s neck, running his finger up and down in the air.  “How’d you get that mark?”

Tom smiled grimly, and leaned in one more time, his mouth close enough to the drunk pilot’s ear to take a bite out of it if he chose and if it weren’t so repulsive, and whispered hoarsely.  “Had me some fun with the last guy who asked a personal question.” 

Ciccone’s eyes went wide and he froze for a moment, before belching loudly and collapsing face forward onto the counter.

Tom turned to the barkeep.  “Don’t forget to let him have the rest of his ale when he wakes up,” he smiled sweetly, while keeping his eyes cold.  “I’ll be asking him whether he got it.”

He turned on his heel and walked out.

_One down, one to go._

 


	10. Always Keep Your Game Face On

 

_“Diplomacy is the art of saying ‘nice doggy’ until you can find a rock.”_

_Will Rogers_

The Starlight Lounge, however ludicrously named, was quite a different proposition from Finnegan’s.  Where the latter was a gathering place for the lost and desperate, the former drew those that were looking at the world with sharp and hungry eyes -- the hunters, not the prey.  Authorities were not popular here; Fleeters crossed the threshold at their peril.

Tom knew this place as surely as he knew his name and the number tattooed on his neck; he’d been in dozens like it, both drunk and sober.  Looking for the chance to fly, or to drown if it did not come his way.  Searching for ways to silence the sounds of screaming metal, to cover the smell of charred flesh of Caldik Prime.  Suppressing the fear that had filled him the day he found out he was human.  Denying the loss he had suffered when he found that restoring his honour came with a price.

It had been in a place like this that he had first met Chakotay, the Maquis captain searching for a pilot to take a ship into the Badlands.  Chakotay had apportioned his contempt equally between the man he had found and the place where he had found him, not bothered to hide either.

Tom felt it now like a physical thing, that contempt, as he looked around and tried to project the image of a man who might be at home in this place; finding instead the man who had been.  Grinding his teeth against the rising bile of his memories and letting his eyes grow cold, he squared his shoulders.  Slowly, deliberately he allowed the foul air to fill his lungs – putting on the room like he would another jacket.  Tried to graft the images of the past onto his face, without letting the memories drip their venom back into his soul.  Failing.

Old habits that had died hard came back surprisingly easy; some had never left.  He scanned the place with hard, keen eyes, registering the wide variety and categories of scum with detached calculation.  Three exits; one bolted shut.  The bar would offer shelter in a phaser fight, if he could jump over it.  Big if, that; it was rather massive, perhaps a piece of salvage.

Tom found himself irrationally wishing to have Harry by his side.  Or Riker.  The Captain was getting a bit squidgy around the edges, but looked like he could still throw his weight around in a fight.  _I must be going soft.  Never used to wish for company … then._ Back when he didn’t care whether he lived another day, or another minute.

Slowly, deliberately, Tom Paris walked across the bar, memories dragging on his feet like Jacob Marley’s chain, making sure that the clientele got a good look at the mark on his neck, the disdain in his eyes – for what, they need not know -- and the phaser on his belt. 

He’d walked alive out of Auckland, the Akritirian Chute, a Kazon ship, the Mokra dungeons and a Borg vessel or three; he could bloody well walk across a bar on a third-rate space station without buckling. 

The two Nausicaans were hard to miss.  _Shit.  I hate Nausicaans._ Took up half the bar, looking professionally nasty.  _Wait a minute._   One of them looked familiar.  It came to him quickly – that decrepit Pallarian freighter, running who knew what cargo past the Cardassians and to the far side of Bajor, just before he’d hooked up with Chakotay and the Maquis. 

The Nausicaan, Koltek something, had been hired to guard the transfer.  He had grumbled something vaguely complimentary about Tom’s flying after the ion storm that could have dislodged and possibly blown up their cargo.  Perhaps the Nausicaan version of a “thanks for saving my butt, buddy?”  Maybe he’d remember? 

The Andorian.  There she was, at the bar, presumably waiting for her so-called pilot, who unbeknownst to her was now snoring underneath a different bar. 

She was staring at him. 

 _Oh yes, blue eyes.  They like blue eyes.  That should help.  Open wide, Tommy boy._  

Her feelers started to sway in his direction.  Tom almost grinned when he remembered Riker’s little tale and his own panicky reaction to Edora; he managed to turn the grin into a smirk at the tall, lithe Andorian beauty before him. 

_Target acquired.  Tactic determined.  Play it, Paris._

He stared at her, practically undressing her with his eyes.

 _Now that’s not so hard, is it?_   Kind of fun, actually.

Tom shoved an obnoxious Ferengi out of the way, nodded at the Nausicaans as he went past.  “Koltek,” he said with a voice pitched somewhere between casually dismissive and sort of respectful.  Nausicaans, too, were distant cousins to Goldilocks; you had to get things just right with them or you got eaten alive.  Koltek raised a furry eyebrow.  _Recognition?  Good._   Acquaintance improved your chances they wouldn’t kill you, at least not for purely gratuitous reasons.  Let the rest of the low-life think he and the Nausicaans were buddies.  Couldn’t hurt.

The Andorian.  She was clearly interested; Riker had definitely been right about those feelers.  Sexy as hell she was, and knew it.  He knew it, too.  _Sheesh, watch her stroking that dagger like it’s your …  Play it, #0766._

“So,” Tom said, his voice a husky drawl that he knew would have B’Elanna dissolved into giggles in ten seconds flat, and on his lap in fifteen, “I hear you need a pilot.” 

It didn’t take long to convince the Andorian that the man she had hired was permanently indisposed; the story he gave was entirely plausible in a place like this.  It took even less time to convince her to hire him instead.  She was … keen.  In more ways than one.  Not to mention stuck, if what the dispatcher had said about her own vessel was accurate.

“One, I’m the best you’re likely to find in these parts.”  Her body language made it pretty clear that she was interested in more than his shuttle and flying skills; between her tongue and her antennae, no words were needed.   

“Two, I’m willing and available.” Hadn’t he offered more than his piloting skills before?  Then.  

_This is now.  Whatever it takes.  Claw back after.  Seal the deal, Thomas._

“Three.  You want me.  I can tell.”  Touching her, smelling her, in that bar … _She felt good …_

The job was his.  Mission accomplished.

_Taste that mouth.  Gods, Riker was right._

Riker...  Captain Riker.  Starfleet.  Enterprise.  Wake up call.  B’Elanna...

_Oh, hell.  B’Elanna’s gonna kill me._

_….._

 

Tom gently pushed the Andorian away, allowing an apologetic smile to touch his eyes, even as his hand grazed and briefly lingered over the ring under his shirt. 

“Would love to get better acquainted, but I make it a rule never to mess with clients, once they’re clients.  No matter how … charming.  Company policy.  Trust you can adapt?”  His eyes quickly scanned the room to see if their little interlude had drawn any attention.  One of the Nausicaans turned back to his drink.

She gave him a long, lingering look, feelers still dancing, tongue brushing where his lips had just been, still tasting him, her breath coming slower now.  “I do need a pilot more than I need … a nice time,” she said.  “I guess I can.  Adapt, I mean.  Maybe later?”

“Maybe.” 

Tom extended his hand.  “Name’s Tom.  At your service.”  The Andorian raised an eyebrow at the deliberate omission of a last name, stared meaningfully at the mark on his neck that included his initials. 

She took his hand, siding her nails along his palm slowly, sensuously as she did so, brushing the back of his hand with her thumb.  _Bitch._ “Ramara.  Ramara Erdilev.”

Tom had heard that name before.  “Erdilev?  Any relation to the Chancellor?”

“The Erdilev are a large clan on Andoria, Mr. … _Tom_.  When can you leave?  Three day round trip to Nadoo IV, possibly another hire at the end to take us home.  My own ship … seems to be missing a few parts.  Ciccone told us he could leave tomorrow.  Any sooner possible?”

Tom gave a graceful wave of his hand, and took a deep sip of his synthale, all mercenary now.  “Let me finish this drink, m’lady, and I am all yours.  Ready to go, ready to fly.  Only thing is …”  She cocked her head, antennae flattening.  “We haven’t come to … terms yet.  Not sure what you agreed with …. Ciccone, you said his name was?  And I don’t care, frankly.  My price is half a bar of latinum now, another half when we get back.  Neutral Zone rate, no deals.  Plus any damage to my ship if the Romulans give us any grief.  Or the Feds, for that matter.” 

Ramara nodded curtly.  She gripped her dagger and sheathed it in the ornate holster that slung diagonally across her chest; it separated and accentuated the breasts she continued to push towards Tom in an unsubtle tease.  The Andorian was clearly paying him back for his earlier come-on; he found himself liking her for it.

“Fine.  If we can leave tonight.  My companion wants to get out of here.  She’s not used to … places like this.”

Tom could readily believe that.  “And you’re going to Nadoo IV why, exactly?”

“Spot of tourism.  To see the Great Gorge.  You can come if you like, or just beam us down if you wish.  Up to you.”

“And what’s wrong with the Grand Canyon on Earth?  Very attractive, no legal complications, fewer Romulans?”

Ramara’s eyes narrowed.  “You ask too many questions, pilot.  Let’s just say my companion wants to get away from it all for a few days, and Earth is not ‘away’ enough.

Tom shrugged and drained his synthale.  “Works for me.  Let’s go.”  He followed Ramara out the bar, taking careful note of any movement behind his back.

The two Nausicaans were setting down their drinks.

 

…..

 

The ‘guest accommodations’ adjacent to the Starlight Lounge were not much better than the bar itself.  A dingy hallway, metal doors, and odd smells characterized what was billed – and probably rightly so – as the most luxurious quarters on the station.  After Ramara identified herself over a small communicator to the tenant inside, it took the latter a good three minutes to disengage various security locks, before the door would open.

Tom hadn’t known what to expect, but what he saw almost caused him to drop his carefully constructed mask.  Lissan Shran was a slip of a girl, maybe the Earth equivalent of somewhere between sixteen and eighteen – slender, delicate and beautiful, with intelligent but frightened eyes.  And so very young.  Tom figured that if he had feelers, they’d be waving in paternal protection mode about now. 

Her skin was a deep blue that shone like a polished gemstone in the garish light of the corridor.  Despite her obvious nervousness she carried herself with a defiant set to her shoulders that instantly appealed to him. 

“This is our pilot, Lissan, his name is Tom.  He says we can go right away.  Are you ready?”  Ramara asked, with just a hint of impatience in her voice.  It was pretty clear to Tom that despite her tough exterior she was as uncomfortable in their present environment as she had said her ‘companion’ was, and he couldn’t blame her.  Not exactly the place to take the heir of a planetary Imperium, especially if you were in charge of her physical protection. 

He’d be personally more than happy to close the hatch on the Flyer and put Nardik Station and demons it had loosened in his head behind him; there’d be time to figure out next steps when he didn’t have to look over his shoulder or pat his psyche down every minute or so.

It took Lissan only a few moments to gather her belongings; Tom recognized her small duffle as being of a brand his sisters had drooled over when they were teenagers.  Some things obviously didn’t change.  He waited with his back to the wall beside the door, hands in his jacket pockets, calculating the fastest way back to the Flyer based on the station schematic on the opposite side of the hallway.  “This way,” he said, nodding towards the corridor that would take them to the turbolift for the Alpha North spoke. 

The same corridor that was now blocked by two very large and very hairy Nausicaans, coming towards them with their phasers drawn. 

“Sorry, Paris,” drawled the one he had earlier recognized as Koltek.  “No hard feelings.  Business is business.  Gotta take these lovely ladies off your hand.  Easy come, easy go.  Gimme that pretty phaser of yours, and be on your way.  Debt paid.”

Nausicaans were rumoured to have a code of honour – of sorts – and apparently it entailed not killing or eviscerating someone who they figured had saved their neck once.  Tom smiled his most smarmily ingratiating smile, and inclined his head in appreciation for the unexpected generosity. 

Ramara glared at him contemptuously as he took the phaser off his belt, but handed over her own without attempting to make a move.  She too knew what Nausicaans were capable of.  Lissan, for her part, stood stock-still, eyes wide, antennae flattened to her glossy white hair. 

“Way it goes, I guess,” Tom said lightly.  “You owe me a good fare though, Koltek.  Need a pilot?  Assuming you’re being paid well, of course?”

“None of your business, Paris, but yes we are.  Fine Andorian ice diamonds, for two fine Andorian ladies.  Plus whatever fun we get to have with them before we finish the job.  And no, we don’t need a pilot.  Not going anywhere.  Now be a good boy and piss off before I regret letting you live.”

Tom shrugged, and casually stuck his hands back into his jacket.  “Sure, whatever you say, Koltek ol’ buddy,” he muttered as he fired off two quick shots from the small phaser in his pocket, right through the leather.  Set on heavy stun, the blasts knocked the two Nausicaans off their feet and into the opposite wall. 

Nausicaans.  No subtlety.  Trust those oversized nitwits to fall for the bright, shiny object in his belt and overlook the small, utilitarian one in his pocket.  He had to remember to thank Admiral Picard for that particularly helpful insight into their character.

Like a cat, Ramara was on the fallen mercenaries and retrieved both her and Tom’s weapon, using hers to give each of the Nausicaans another shot in the head for good measure.  It did not look like her weapon had a stun setting.

Tom frowned briefly at the ethics of the woman’s move, although it probably made little difference to the Nausicaans, all things considered.  As it was, they would have been left unconscious near a place full of people looking for easy profit; he sure didn’t have the time to drag them someplace safe, even if there was one and he’d felt so inclined, which he was not.  These were trained killers, would-be rapists, who had taken a professional risk that hadn’t paid off.  How had Koltek put it?  _Easy come, easy go._

He shrugged off and decided to postpone any internal debate on morality, necessity and proportionality before it got too complicated, and stuck out his hand for his expensive regenerative phaser.  Ramara hesitated a bit, but thought the better of it when he glared at her and handed it over. 

“Not bad,” she said.  “You just earned your fare.” 

“And a little extra, I should say,” Tom smirked, fully back in character now.  “I mean, look at what that did to my nice jacket.  That sucker was expensive.”  The right pocket was still hot from the blast that had cut a hole straight through it, and he patted it a few times to make sure he wouldn’t catch on fire.  The smell was something else.

He turned to Lissan.  “You okay, young lady?”  She looked up at him, her sparkling eyes filled with what could only be described as Grade A hero worship.  _Oh shit._   “Yes,” she breathed, “You were _wonderful,_ Tom.  You saved my _life_.  _Our_ lives.” 

Based on what little Koltek had given away before his inglorious demise that was probably true, but Tom shrugged off the accolade.  “All in a day’s work,” he said nonchalantly.  The last thing he needed, really, was another Andorian female going gaga over his baby blues.  Especially one who was barely older than Miral.

“Let’s get to the Flyer before anyone comes to investigate,” he said, picking up Lissan’s dropped duffle and slinging it over his shoulder as he nudged her along.  Ramara cocked an eyebrow and followed him, bringing up the rear with her phaser still in her hand.  Tom’s back itched a little at the thought, but he squared his shoulders and kept moving.

 

….

 

Captain William Riker was laying his one-hundred and fifty-eighth solitaire when Tored Paak came over to have a closer look.  “Can you show me how to do this?” he asked, evidently getting as bored as his captive.  “It must be a satisfying activity, if it holds your attention this long.”

Riker shrugged.  “Sure,” he said, collecting the cards and shuffling the plastic deck with a practiced snap of his thumbs that still, after forty-eight times, earned him an envious look from the protocol officer.  “You familiar with the Terran deck of cards?”

“I believe I am.  When I received my training, poker was a popular pastime.  Somebody had brought it back from Earth.  We don’t have such games on Andoria.” 

 _I bet,_ Riker thought.  _People like Erdilev couldn’t keep the smugness at a good hand off their face for more than three seconds.  Feelers would be a problem, too._

“Now, the _Royal_ Deck, which is what we have here, is a bit different.  You play without the Jacks, but all the other cards are the same.  Here, sit down.  I’ll show you.” 

Paak obediently sat in the chair the Captain had vacated.  Standing beside and slightly behind him, Riker laid out a deck, and opened the first row.  He patiently explained the rules, once, twice, until Paak declared himself ready to try on his own.

Taking another step behind him, Riker’s hand closed around the four cards he had slipped up his sleeve quite some time ago.  Playing without the Jacks had been a bit disconcerting at first, but he had gotten used to it after a few turns.

He put the four cards together in a little stack in the palm of his hand, tested the edge with his thumb, gripped them with three fingers around the sides, and bent them slightly for strength.  Not great, but it would do.  With a quick move he put Paak’s head in a vise-like grip with his left arm, snapped it back and with his right hand drew the sharp edges of the cards across the man’s throat like a blade.

Riker swallowed hard as his would-be guard’s body slid onto the floor.  No matter how many times he had caused a person’s death, no matter how justifiable under the rules of self-defence, necessity or armed conflict, let alone his own personal code of honour, killing a sentient being would always left ashes in his mouth.

But he was the Captain of a starship that was under threat, with a duty to escape and to try to aid his crew.  Riker looked at the still form of Tored Paak through hooded eyes as his former captor lay on the floor, blue blood pooling around his head.  He knew he would be spending the next few nights recreating the list in his mind.  Who had been the last…?  Ah yes, the Reman Viceroy, on the _Scimitar,_ the day Data died.And before that …

Riker shook his head to clear it; now was not the time.  He headed for the door, a last glimpse at Paak, dimly registering that the card lying face up beside the dead man’s body was the Jack of Hearts.


	11. Read Between The Lies

 

 _“_ _This above all:  To Thine Own Self Be True.”_

_William Shakespeare (Hamlet)_

 

 

The Flyer was where he had left it.  Tom quickly determined that his security codes had not been tampered with -- almost too good to be true.

 

Lissan wrinkled her nose at the decrepit appearance of the shuttle’s hull.  “It’s very … dirty,” she said disapprovingly.  “Disgusting.”  She looked at Ramara, who had been oddly quiet since they had left the Nausicaans in the corridor.  “Are you sure we have to travel in _this?_   Why can’t we fix my yacht and take that?”

 

Tom rolled his eyes.  “Don’t worry, the maid vacuumed the inside just yesterday,” he said as he clicked the hatch open remotely.  The door hissed and the steps flipped down.  “After you, ladies.”  He wasted no time in sealing the hatch and making for the console. 

 

Ramara scanned the gleaming interior of the Flyer with a practiced eye.  “How in the name of the glaciers did you get your hands on _this_?” she asked sharply.  Tom gave her his best smirk as he punched in the required pre-flight check sequences with practiced speed. 

 

“Busted it out of a shuttle port with lousy security,” he said truthfully, if somewhat disingenuously.

 

“You _stole_ it??”  Lissan breathed, her voice hovering halfway between appalled and impressed.  Ramara spared Tom the decision whether to confirm or deny her assumption.  “He’s a felon,” she shrugged distractedly, as she took in the impeccable state of the shuttle’s consoles and instruments.  The only thing out of place was a small, gaudy bag with the well-known logo of the Andorian ice caves, which had been carelessly dropped on the floor beside the console.  Tom followed her eyes and quickly took possession of the small portable transporter that was still in the bag, storing it in a compartment under the console.

 

“A convicted criminal.  That’s what that blue mark on his neck means, Your Imp… Lissan.  They mark prisoners with those so they can keep track of them.”  Tom looked up at her sharply, with narrowed eyes, but Ramara ploughed on, undeterred.  “I suppose we can count ourselves lucky he’s _our_ criminal.  For now, anyway.  Until someone else offers him more money, that is.”  Lissan’s eyes went round, and her mouth formed a little ‘oh’.

 

Tom decided to ignore the implied – okay, the direct – insult on the integrity of his assumed persona and focused on the console instead.  He put in a call to the station attendant for clearance to leave.  A disembodied voice came on; based on its state of wakefulness it was clearly not his erstwhile business partner. 

 

“Shuttlecraft at Alpha North 47, this is Nardik station security.  Prepare to be boarded.”

 

 _Shit._ That was a development he did not need.  “I’d suggest you sit down, both of you.  It could get a bit bumpy.”

 

Tom wasn’t sure what would have surprised him more, that Nardik might have a functioning security unit, or that it had found the Nausicaans already, _and_ tracked their demise to him and the Flyer.  He doubled his speed on the console, engaging his thrusters and the multi-phasic shield.  One quick re-polarization of the latter, and the docking clamps broke off in a clang of metal on metal, pieces ricocheting off the station’s already dented spoke.

 

“Shuttle at Alpha North 47.  You are not cleared to depart.  You are suspected of harbouring two persons wanted by Andoria.”  _Definitely not station security then._   “Disengage thrusters and lower shields or …”

 

“Or what?  You’re gonna call Starfleet?”  Tom snarled as the Flyer lifted off from its berth.  “Be my guest.  Hang on, ladies.”  He banked the shuttle away from the station in such a sharp turn that the inertial dampeners could not fully compensate; Ramara managed to cling to the tactical station, but Lissan found herself unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

 

“Prepare to be tractored in,” the voice snapped. 

 

“He’s Andorian!”  Ramara gasped in disbelief. 

 

Tom wasted no time wondering what might have happened to his erstwhile informant, although he assumed it was not good.  Whoever had taken over the command centre at Nardik sounded like a professional, probably Koltek’s employer, and had most likely applied far more permanent methods to obtain the dispatcher’s silent cooperation than handing him a couple of slivers of latinum.  Tom growled an impressive string of curses in a mixture of Anglo-Saxon, Klingon and French as his hands danced over the red buttons and levers of the Flyer’s helm. 

 

And for the third time in twenty-four hours, the most highly decorated pilot in Starfleet deliberately and calculatedly violated half a dozen Federation flight regulations, as well as numerous intergalactic piloting protocols, by causing his shuttle to scream out of the space station and going to warp well before clearing anything like the requisite safety perimeters.  This time, the Flyer was sufficiently close that the mysterious Andorian command console operator experienced first-hand the peculiar forces unleashed by the interaction between a live tractor beam and an emerging warp field.  There would be no pursuit.

 

Inside the station, a number of patrons stared into their glasses in momentary wonder as whatever beverage they were about to ingest suddenly seemed to move on its own volition.  Most simply shrugged and went about their business, although two of the whores at Finnegan’s successfully claimed an extra good tip that night, and one Alberto Ciccone swore to lay off the Romulan ale for at least a week.

 

On the Flyer, Ramara had finished her inspection of the shuttle’s interior layout and equipment and looked at Tom sharply.  “This is a Starfleet vessel,” she said accusingly, her hand on her dagger-cum-phaser. 

 

Tom glared back.  “Okay, and what if it is, Ms ‘Wanted on Andoria’?  You gonna shoot me?  You know how to fly this thing, get it out of warp and into some place where there aren’t any big, hairy Nausicaans or supposed Andorian officials waiting to get their hands on you?  No?  Didn’t think so.” 

 

He turned his back on her and made adjustments to the Flyer’s course – back to the Andorian system.  Ramara watched him with undisguised suspicion, her hand still on her phaser.  “Where are you going?” she demanded.  “We are paying you to take us to the Neutral Zone.”

 

Tom let out an exasperated breath.  “Three things,” he said firmly.  “One.  You haven’t actually paid me anything.  Two, you’re not going to.  I make more than enough money doing perfectly legal things, and I don’t need yours.  Three.  Since, as you have so correctly pointed out, this _is_ a Starfleet vessel, it’s actually illegal for her to enter the Neutral Zone.”  He added virtuously, “And since I am a law-abiding citizen of the United Federation of Planets – most of the time, anyway – I have no intention of going there.”

 

Lissan, who had flattened herself against the chair of the ops console while the inertial dampeners were failing to keep up with Tom’s precipitous departure from Nardik, drew herself up to her full height – about half a head shorter than B’Elanna, Tom noticed with detachment – and demanded, imperiously, to be taken to … to …  She stomped her foot angrily when no destination sprang immediately to mind.

 

“Want a star chart and a dart?”  Tom offered politely.  Teenagers.  Never could make up their minds about anything, except things they shouldn’t.  “But, I do have to tell you, the only place you’re going to right now is back to Andor.  And in case you want to know why, it’s because that’s where my ship is currently being held as a pawn in somebody’s game.  I would like it back and to make sure my Captain, my crew and my family are safe, and I believe you can help me do that.” 

 

What he didn’t add was ‘ _somehow -- although I haven’t as yet figured out quite how the hell that’s supposed to happen’._

Instead, he said, “Out here, we now know you have at least one set of assassins after you.  We managed to get rid of two of them, and I have a feeling that whoever just tried to have us tractored back to the station probably belongs to the same outfit.  Frankly, I think you’ll be safer on Andor, provided we get you to the right place.  So let’s help each other out, okay?”

 

Even if she had perhaps not quite followed all of Tom’s logic, something of what he had said sunk into the princess’ consciousness.  She was young, perhaps a little impetuous and naïve, but she was certainly not stupid. 

 

“Ramara!”  Lissan breathed, anxiously.  “Do you think he’s right?  Those big, hairy guys.  They weren’t just … space station thugs, like the ones you warned me about, but someone hired them to … to actually kill us?”

 

“Kill or capture.  _Fine Andorian ice diamonds for two fine Andorian ladies_ ,” Tom gently quoted Kaltek.  “Yes, I do believe they were after you specifically.  I’m sorry to tell you this, but your little Romulan holiday is over, Your Imperial Highness.  So I would suggest that you, your Guardian angel and I sit down and have a little chat.  And just to get things off on the right foot, allow me to formally introduce myself.  Commander Thomas Eugene Paris, USS Enterprise, at your service.  You may call me Tom though.  Since you did already anyway.” 

 

“ _You’re_ Starfleet too?  Not just this ship?”  Ramara could not keep the disbelief out of her voice.  “So you didn’t steal it?  But that … that …” she pointed to Tom’s neck.  “That can’t be faked.  And it’s got … your initials.  How did you get that mark?” 

 

Tom smiled grimly.  “It’s not a fake.  It’s a long story and some day I may tell it to you.  But not today.  It came in handy to get me into and out of that dive in one piece, and that’s all you need to know.  They’re not too fussed by us Starfleet types in places like that.”  He put the Flyer on autopilot and swung his seat around. 

 

“What I want to know for my part is this – what in Kahless’ name did you two think you were doing out here, and what the _hell_ is happening on that goddamn hunk of ice you call your home planet?”

 

Ramara turned to Lissan and whispered urgently in her ear.  The young woman shook her head, her feelers dancing.  “No, no, no,” she said loud enough that Tom could overhear.  “I trust him.  He saved our life, and he got us away from that … awful place.  And …” her voice trailed off into a whisper, intended only for Ramara but quite audible in the limited confines of the Flyer’s cabin, “… he has the most _beautiful_ blue eyes I have ever seen …”

 

Tom cleared his throat, hoping to end that line of thinking right then and there.  The idea of Andorian females worshipping at the altar of his damned eyes was getting old quickly, and this one was barely older than his daughter… 

 

Lissan looked up at him guilelessly, obviously considering that the formality of Tom’s introduction called for reciprocity.  “I think you already know that I’m a princess, Tom,” she declared.  “I ran away, because I don’t want to be one anymore.  And Ramara here helped me, encouraged me, and said it was the right thing to do.  She is my Personal Guard, and my one true friend.”  She thought for a moment, then added judiciously, “Apart from Rahm, but he’s not here, so he doesn’t count.” 

 

“Actually,” Tom said, “your friend Rahm counts for rather a lot.  He’s the one that asked me to find you, and suggested where I should start looking.  If it weren’t for him, you’d probably be dead now.  Or worse.  And now, if you please, back to my question.” 

 

Tom noticed that ‘the Personal Guard’, for her part, had remained perfectly quiet during the entire exchange, her feelers preternaturally straight.  It seemed that while the Andorians couldn’t quite control what their antennae did when they were … interested or aroused, they _could_ still them with an act of pure willpower at other times, even if not for long.  But apart from allowing Tom to come to this this rather intriguing anthropological conclusion, Ramara’s body language seemed to him to reflect a galactic constant. 

 

Having lived with two older sisters for eighteen years, served under a female captain for seven, and been married for almost three, Tom Paris was not an idiot around women, and could feel a Major Emotional Revelation coming from three parsecs away.  So, rather than interfere, he decided to play pilot for a while, remain quiet and await developments.

 

“Princess …” Ramara suddenly flung herself on her knees before Lissan, all control over her antennae gone.  “My Lady, forgive me.  I never meant to put you in harm’s way, I swear.  That’s why I insisted on being the one to accompany you when you expressed the desire to leave …  To protect you, to keep you safe until you were ready to return.”

 

She bowed her head.  “But I was called upon to be an instrument of the ushaan by my family.”  Tom’s ears pricked up.  Now they were getting somewhere, or, as some of the geekier guys at the Kirk Centre were fond of saying, ‘acquiring granularity’. 

 

“The ushaan was called by the clan of the Erdilev to avenge the slights against my uncle, the Chancellor, by the Imperial family.  Slights and aspersions cast by your father.”

 

Ramara’s story was simple, or at least as simple as Andorian politics allowed.

The declared objective of the ushaan had been to remove the to-be-announced heir from Andor for a sufficiently long duration to ensure that the Emperor would be forced to cancel the very public ceremony.  With most of the sector having sent representatives to witness the embarrassment, the false accusations against the Erdilev clan would be avenged, the Imperial dynasty would continue -- albeit with great loss of face -- and life on Andoria could proceed at whatever level of normalcy it could aspire to.

 

“Or at least, so you were told,” Tom interjected softly, who saw no reason to disbelieve the evidently distraught woman. 

 

“Yes,” Ramara replied, eyes downcast, her lashes spiky with tears.  “So I was told.  I think we do know better now.” 

 

As her story spilled out, it became clear that Ramara had been set up, asked to encourage Lissan to give in to her adolescent desire to escape her responsibilities and to take her to Nardik in her yacht – what excitement for a sheltered princess!  From there she was to engage a pilot to take them into the Neutral Zone, where they would be inaccessible for the duration of the preparations, and the Succession ceremony itself.  In due course, they would return, physically no worse for wear but having caused sufficient loss of face to the Emperor to satisfy the maligned Erdilev clan.

 

But a third-rate space station at the outer rim of the Neutral Zone – not to mention the Neutral Zone itself -- was as good a place as any for two women disappear entirely, without a trace, opening up the Andorian succession to anyone wishing to make a play for it.  Including, first and foremost, the Chancellor himself.  The man whose alleged ‘honour’ Ramara had been sent to defend. 

 

As far as Ramara was concerned, the list of prime suspects in her betrayal was limited to one.  “I will be avenged,” she declared indignantly.  “Perfidy against the appointed instrument of ushaan is a direct violation of Rule 879 …” 

 

Tom rolled his eyes.  “Fuck your infantile feuds, their twelve-thousand-odd rules, and your petty political intrigues,” he said forcefully.  “I have problems of my own to solve.  And for now, those problems mean that I am taking you two back to Andor to put an end to the game playing.  I trust you don’t have any problems with that.”

 

Ramara glared at him.  “We owe you our lives,” she said through gritted teeth.  “You have the right to demand that we go with you.  Ushaan-al-shaar.”

 

The debt that must be paid, he remembered from his paper.  Tom bit back a smile.  How convenient.  Finally, something had gone right.

 

While this discussion was going on, Lissan, who seemed to suffer from the universal teenage condition of being unable to sit still and unoccupied for more than five minutes at a time, had picked up the bag from the ice cave gift shop and started taking Miral’s toy apart.  Tom thought briefly of taking it away from her but reconsidered, in light of all the rather more sensitive things a nervous teenager might be inclined to finger instead. 

 

Contrary to perception though, the princess appeared to have followed the discussion with keen ears.  “But I don’t _want_ to go back,” she wailed and stomped her foot again.  “They’ll make me be a princess again and then …” 

 

Tom turned to her and gave her his sternest look.  “You want to run away and sulk, young lady, fine -- you’ve done that already.  And it hasn’t worked out particularly well for you, has it.”  He paused briefly, slightly alarmed at just how much he was starting to sound like his father. 

 

“You don’t want to be a princess anymore, also fine – abdicate, formally.  The Federation has laws about forcing people to take jobs they don’t want, and I’ve seen nothing to suggest that those don’t apply to hereditary monarchs.  I do know a good lawyer who can help you, if you like.  But one thing I will _not_ let you do is whinge and throw tantrums onboard my shuttle.  I won’t have it.  Wailing is out too.  Are we clear?”

 

Lissan sat on the floor and started to sob.  Tom’s heart melted, and he began to wonder whether he had been just a little harsh.  He’d always been a sucker for a girl’s tears.

 

“Look,” he said, his voice softening, “when I was your age, people expected me to do … certain things, too.  And I didn’t want any of it.  Truth is, I didn’t really know what I wanted, but as soon as someone – and particularly my father – told me I should go a particular way, I immediately headed in the opposite direction.  The thing my father wanted me to do was go to Starfleet Academy, get good grades, become a Starfleet Officer.  Admittedly not as bad as being expected to run a planet.  But it _felt_ just as bad at the time, all because I wasn’t given a say in the matter.”

 

He grinned ruefully and shook his head.  “And so I went about sabotaging everything my Dad wanted me to do, even things I actually enjoyed, if I’d stopped and thought about it for a second.  I started by deliberately messing up in little ways, just out of protest, like getting bad grades when he wanted me to do well.  But eventually, screwing up became such a habit that I couldn’t stop.  And then I messed up big time, and eliminated any options to do anything else, that I might otherwise have had.”

 

Lissan’s eyes had gotten all round as she soaked up his words.  “Is that how you ended up in jail?” she asked breathlessly.

 

Tom shook his head slowly in the affirmative.  “Yeah, eventually, although there are some other wrinkles there that we don’t need to get into right now.  Truth is though, I’d been in a jail of my own making long before then.  And this,” he pointed at his neck, his voice momentarily cracking a little at a memory not spoken, “was only the final stamp of disapproval, the proof that I’d hit rock bottom.  The point I’m trying to make to you is that I put all my energy into running _away_ from stuff, and none at all into running _towards_ anything.  That’s what you need to avoid, little princess – it’s the running away, the _not_ doing things.  Go find alternatives instead.  Develop options for yourself, keep them open.”

 

He paused again, hoping something of what he was saying might sink in.  “I mean, look at me now.  I’m a Starfleet Officer after all, and pretty happy about it.  _Very_ happy, actually – most of the time, anyway, except when Starfleet does something to piss me off, which has been known to happen.  Anyway, sometimes it turns out that the thing your parents tried to ram down your throat is actually what’s meant for you.  Not always, but sometimes. Did in my case.  You just never know.  I was damn lucky to get that option back.” 

 

Tom sighed.  “You’re a good kid, little princess.  You’ve been thrown into all of this too soon; you need some time to figure things out for yourself.  Not have people tell you what you should do, or what you want or don’t want.  And that includes your so-called _friends_.” 

 

He threw Ramara a challenging look.  Much as he admired the Guard’s spunk, the idea that she had allowed herself to be used to betray the girl supposedly entrusted into her care, using the girl’s own doubts and fears to further some asinine revenge game, offended him deeply. 

 

“You need to think of a way how you can find a bit of space for yourself, without being a pawn for somebody else’s ambition.” 

 

He was just about to turn around and back to his console when he heard Lissan whisper between sobs, “Starfleet Academy…  I always wanted to go there.  I want to learn things, fly a shuttle, meet different people, learn about different cultures, make friends.  Real friends.  But my father says the Academy isn’t for Andorians.”

 

“Bullshit.  I had at least two Andorians in my class when I first went.  Something one of them said in a class once actually gave me an idea for a paper.  Although …” Tom chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.  “Now that I think about it, I didn’t see any on campus when I went back last year.  Maybe that’s something you could change?  Should change?  Wouldn’t hurt your people to get out a bit, get a different perspective on things.  Based on what I’ve seen, a slightly more … galactic outlook probably wouldn’t hurt, and if you set an example for them ...  Not a bad idea, kiddo.  Not bad at all.”

 

Lissan started to revive a little.  Her antennae danced again in Tom’s direction.  “Would you talk to my father?  Tell him he should let me go?  I could still be a princess afterwards.  _If_ I decide to.”  She gave him a tremulous smile, yellow-green eyes big and pleading, like Miral’s when she wanted to borrow her mother’s stuffed Targ.

 

 

“I’ll try.  If the opportunity arises,” he said, trying to sound as non-committal as he could.  And swore a silent oath that he would do whatever it took, come hell or high water.

 

Lissan looked up at him worshipfully.  “You are the most wonderful man I have ever met, Tom Paris,” she declared simply and threw her arms around him.  “I love you!”

 

Rolling his eyes, Tom disentangled himself from the still slightly tear-damp but now beaming princess and put the Flyer on autopilot.  He was pleased that the revelation of his little deception had served to cool Ramara’s interest in him to a chilly frost, but what was he to do with the adulation of a girl who, as far as he was concerned, was essentially just a slightly taller, bluer version of Miral?

 

Tuning out for a while might be a Good Thing.  “Ladies,” he announced, “we have about two hours before we come out of warp.  I recommend we all try to catch a few winks of sleep.  I don’t know about you, but I no longer feel quite my best.  I’ve had a thirty-odd-hour day, and adrenaline only gets you so far.”

 

Tom opened the two fold-out bunks for his passengers and pulled out a spare ultra-light mattress for himself, which he placed in front of the helm.  He sat down on the mattress and pulled the chain out of his t-shirt.  His wedding ring gleamed in the cabin light.  He rolled it lightly between his fingers, kissed it and – fully aware now of Ramara’s glinting eyes on him -- put it back on his finger.  He gave her an apologetic shrug and a smile.  _You’re not the only one capable of deception, babe.  At least mine was in a good cause._

 

Sitting down on her bunk now, Lissan blew her nose on one of the tissues stored in a wall compartment and then picked up the crystal puzzle again.  As she slid the last piece into place, a soft light appeared, purple changing to blue, turquoise and green and back. Tom allowed himself a brief moment of paternal smugness, imagining how much Miral would love her new toy when they were reunited. 

 

And then the music started to play. 

 

Ramara, who had remained withdrawn throughout the entire earlier exchange between her two companions and was now sitting quietly on her bunk, lifted her head at the sound, a tinkling, like wind chiming through icicles.  Lissan, too, initially sat in silence as the melody filled the Flyer’s cabin.

 

But then she began to sing.  Softly at first, gaining strength and confidence as she went.  Her young voice was pure and sweet, as clear as a bell on a cold winter morning, rising and falling with the complex melody.  She sang of a Lady, who came from one of the poles of Andor to rule over the people of the ice; who descended deep into the ground to meet the Aenar of the caves; who united all Andorians and brought peace to the land.  A peace without feuds, for a hundred years, a long time ago. 

 

When she finished, the song hung in the room for some time, almost visible, like the warmth of a breath on a chilly day.  Slightly embarrassed, Lissan herself broke the silence, smiling awkwardly.  “It’s a song about the first Empress of Andoria.  I learned it when I was little; she is supposed to have been one of my ancestors.  I’m not sure that’s true though, or whether she was even real.”

 

“It’s a very beautiful song,” Tom said quietly.  “That makes it true.  And your voice singing it, that makes _her_ real.”  He called for the lights in the cabin to dim.

 

Lissan studied the crystal puzzle for a moment, pulled out the last piece, put it back in.  The light and the music filled the cabin again.  “I do have to go back, don’t I?” she asked softly. 

 

Tom felt like a traitor when he nodded.  “You need to go back for many reasons.  Not the least because I believe you’ll be safer on Andor than you are out here.  But you also have to go back to determine what you do want to do.  Your choices do include the path your father wants you to take, Lissan, but there are others open to you as well.  And you have to go back, to make sure that you get to make them.”  He stretched out on his makeshift bed.

 

Ramara had kept still on her bunk through the entire exchange, hugging her knees, lost in her own thoughts.  Tom’s eyes met hers, lingered in the yellow gaze, searching for the answer he expected to see -- finding it. 

 

She knew.  They both did.

 

Whatever would happen to the young princess, fate would be far less kind to this member of the Imperial Guard.  She had at best failed her own family, at worst been betrayed by them; she had made a potentially deadly enemy of the Emperor and his clan; and by accepting to become an instrument of the ushaan ahead of her assigned task and sworn duty, she had forever forfeited her place in the Imperial Guard.

 

What choices did Ramara Erdilev have, in a society where forgiveness was unknown and revenge the currency of daily life? 

 

“Maybe you could consider joining Starfleet?”  Tom said softly.  “We can always use experienced security officers on a starship.  I can put in a word with my Captain, when we find him.”

 

Ramara smiled at him wanly, looking at the ring on his finger, then back up into his eyes.  With a voice that echoed a smoky bar and an earlier empty promise, she whispered a single word.

 

 “Maybe.”


	12. If Your Hand Sucks, Play A Wild Card

_“The conventional army loses if it does not win.  The guerrilla wins if he does not lose.”_

_Henry A. Kissinger_

_  
_

“Starfleet Command, come in.”

 

Tom brought the Flyer out of warp about a billion kilometers from the gas giant around which Andor sailed in its icy orbit.  The outer reaches of the Andorian system were marked by a classical Oort cloud, a loose collection of spatial debris trapped by the Andorian sun that surrounded it in a rough sphere in the outer reaches of its gravitational pull.  Tom hoped that the multiplicity of stellar bodies in various shapes and sizes would mask the Flyer’s arrival from the sensors of the Planetary Defence Force at least temporarily, while still permitting communications with Headquarters.

 

Tom checked over his shoulder; it seemed both his passengers were still asleep in their bunks, a testament, as far as he was concerned, to the basic creature comforts in the Flyer’s design.  After a series of attempted hails and realignments of the Flyer’s long-range transmitters, and a move away from a small planetoid that seemed rich in metals with high-interference beta emissions, he was finally rewarded by seeing the face of Jarod Tervellyan. 

 

The Commander looked quite a bit more harried, and a lot less cheerful, than when Tom had first contacted him.

 

“Jarod …”

 

Tervellyan cut him off rather unceremoniously.  “Hey Paris, nice to have visual for a change.  Good to see you’re still with us.  We were getting a bit worried here.  We even had a call from your father.  A friend of yours commed him from Jupiter Station, worried if you were ok.  Something about your credit account being misused?  You got quite a far-reaching network, man.” 

 

He waved off Tom’s attempt to launch into the debriefing the latter had planned so carefully.  “Before you tell me anything from your end, here’s where we’re at here at Starfleet.” 

 

Somewhat non-plussed at the brush-off – you would have thought Starfleet would be keen to hear what one of its missing members had been up to – Tom shrugged and settled in to what he hoped would be a quick recitation.  In a few spare words, Tervellyan laid out the directions Starfleet had received from the Federation Council, from its highest level. 

 

_Under no circumstances was the Fleet to interfere in the internal affairs of Andoria._

 

The fact that the Andorian forces had taken it upon themselves to immobilize the Enterprise, the Federation’s flagship, was to be considered as an unfortunate diplomatic misstep; the Council had been advised by a high-ranking Palace official with direct access to the Emperor that no further escalation was warranted by either side.  In reliance on these assurances, the Council had decreed that no additional Fleet ships would be sent to Andor. 

 

The Andorian side, in turn, had given its most sincere commitment that the Enterprise would be – not _released_ , because that word carried rather unfortunate connotations -- but rather _cleared to leave Andorian space_ in due course, following the Imperial event it had been sent to honour with its presence.  (Apparently quite a lengthy negotiation had gone into the precise wording of the diplomatic notes documenting this exchange.)

 

When questioned privately, the Andorian ambassador had been quite adamant that the little _skirmish_ involving the Flyer had been an unfortunate and regrettable occurrence, solely due to the inexperience and excessive zealousness of one of the Andorian fleet commanders.  Disciplinary measures had been initiated.  Andoria expected that similar measures would be taken against the individual who had piloted the Fleet shuttle, given the utterly reckless and unlawful maneuvers he had engaged in when leaving Andorian space.  Tervellyan could not suppress quick waggle of his thick, black eyebrows when he gave Tom that particular piece of news.

 

The Imperial Palace, however, strenuously denied that the Andorian authorities were holding Captain Riker, who may well have ‘fallen victim to the many hidden delights of Andoria’ or else been ‘kidnapped by private interests’.  A _diligent_ investigation into his disappearance was underway, and the Federation’s ambassador on Andor would be kept updated as to the results.  The authorities – specifically, the Chancellor’s Office, were optimistic that no harm had befallen him and that he would be found in time for the Succession Announcement.

 

Tom was incredulous, and cut to the chase.  “So what you’re telling me is, Starfleet isn’t going to do _anything_?”

 

Jarod shrugged.  “Council has given strictest instructions to the Fleet to stand down.  Nacheyev is under _express_ direction not to deploy the ships we had scrambled, and to await developments.  The Andorians have graciously permitted the transmission of those instructions to go through the comms blackout.”

 

Yeah, you bet.  His crew had essentially been told by Starfleet Headquarters that they weren’t allowed to come to his or the Captain’s assistance.  And with Jorak in charge, these instructions would be carried out to the letter.  So much for back-up.

 

Tom chewed his lower lip, trying desperately to wrap his mind around the political calculations that would have gone into what amounted to a willingness to just … let shit happen. 

 

“What if the Emperor does not survive – politically or otherwise – the next twenty-four hours?”

 

Tervellyan shrugged.  “I’m not a politician, but I gather the assumption is that whoever comes up tops, will needs be a friend of the Federation.  So, as far as the politicians are concerned, there’s no point in taking sides now, lest they alienate the potential winner.  Hedging their bets, or something like that.  Or as my grandfather would say, don’t piss on the guy you have to share a bed with.  The official term is ‘non-interference in the internal affairs of a member of the Federation.’  Which brings us back to where we started.”

 

Tom nodded slowly.  The calculation behind the ‘neutralization’ of the Enterprise and the disappearance of her Captain was becoming increasingly clear: over the years, the flag ship and her commanding officers had been known _occasionally_ to take matters into their own hands.  Now they had been forced to become a bystander, a very public witness - if not a cheerleader - thanks to the Federation Council’s willingness to allow politics to take its course.  A genuine coup for the mastermind behind the move to alter the Imperial succession plans.

 

“Okay, I get the picture, Jarod.  So, now can I tell you what I’ve learned during the last twenty-four hours?”

 

Tervellyan gave Tom a long, meaningful look.  “Receiving a briefing from you at this point might be _prejudicial to the interests of Starfleet_.”  He paused for effect.  “As for your own next steps, I have no instructions concerning the Flyer,” he said, enunciating each syllable very clearly.  “In fact, the Flyer did not feature in the discussions between Admiral Nacheyev and the Federation Council.  I repeat, I have no instructions for you.” 

 

He reached for the disconnect.  “Take care, Tom.”

 

The screen went blank.  Tom was just about to utter an incredulous curse, when the implications of what he had just heard struck home.  Starfleet not only didn’t want to hear what he’d been up to, they also didn’t want to know what he might plan to do.

 

A slow smile stole across his face, and he shook his head in stunned wonderment at the extent of what had to be Fleet Admiral Alynna Nacheyev’s very own, very personal brand of duplicity in her relationship with the Federation Council.  No wonder Jarod looked like death warmed over.

 

Plausible deniability.  Don’t ask, don’t look, don’t tell.

 

Starfleet had given Thomas Eugene Paris _carte blanche_.

 

_….._

 

Riker cursed softly as the door mechanism finally gave way, after his fifth attempt to short out the manual override with a spork -- the only metal implement the replicator had been willing to produce. 

 

First things first – get past the guard who had been leaning against the door contemplating his silver fingernails, and was scrambling for his weapon when the door hissed open unexpectedly.  Riker threw his full weight at the man, pinning him to the wall before grabbing his head and knocking it against the door, feelers first.  The man – if that’s what he was, it was sometimes hard to tell with Andorians – yelped in pain and crumpled to the ground.  Riker dragged him into the room he had just left, deposited him just inside, and pulled the door shut from the outside.

 

At least the guard had a weapon, Riker mused, even if he was less than adept at making use of it.  He pocketed that and the man’s communicator, on the assumption that it might tell him when reinforcements might be on their way, and headed down the corridor in search of an exit strategy.

 

First step would have to be to try and find out where the hell he was.  Next was moving around without being detected.  Will Riker was generally quite sanguine about his height; in fact, he rather enjoyed towering over most people he met.  But trying to remain inconspicuous in a world where everyone was nearly a head shorter and blue would not be an easy matter. 

 

On the assumption that the Emperor would probably be interested to learn that his Chancellor was planning a coup, at least the Captain’s destination was clear:  the Imperial Palace.  How he would get there, he had no idea.  Something would come up.  Something always did.

…..

 

Tom decided his passengers had slept enough.  If the politicians had determined that the status quo was a Good Thing, and Starfleet was prepared to let him freelance regardless, now was as good a time as any to introduce a new variable or two into the game.

 

“Lissan, we will need to take you to the Palace, sooner rather than later.  Whoever is currently working to undermine your father’s reign is clearly basing their calculation on your continued absence.  Your return will lead them to make mistakes, and hopefully expose whoever tried to … remove you from contention.  And set up Ramara.”

 

He added that last bit upon seeing the Andorian guard unfold her taller form from the bunk where she had ostensibly slept, although judging by her haggard face, had in fact been tossing and thinking unpleasant thoughts.  Hearing herself deliberately cast as a victim rather than a willing perpetrator of intrigue, Ramara cast Tom a look somewhere on the spectrum between loathing and gratitude.  Tom decided he preferred the latter, and tossed her a ration bar from the Flyer’s pantry. 

 

“Here, have some breakfast.  I’d rather not engage the replicator; who knows when we can replenish our energy reserves.”  When Lissan sent him an uncomprehending look, he explained, “Whenever you’re on a mission where you don’t know when you get home, its better to ration your resources.”  She nodded, _oh._

 

He smiled at her.  “You’ll learn that if you get to take Old Sneezy’s survival course at the Academy.  Lucky for you, my father’s retired now.  He was teaching it the year I had to take it.  No fun at all.”  He handed her a ration bar as well.  “Here, eat.  It’s not Imperial caviar, but it’ll keep you going for a couple of hours.”

 

He sat back in the pilot’s chair, after a quick scan of the sensors for incoming visitors.  So far, so good – clear sailing.

 

Ramara stared at him balefully.  “So how do propose we get into the Palace without getting ourselves killed, _Starfleet_?”  Tom winced a little at her unwitting use of the moniker B’Elanna had used for his best friend, Harry Kim, when they had first met – probably with about the same amount of love and respect behind it.  Funny how some things came around.

 

“First questions first, _Guard._   What kind of security measures are in place within the confines of the Imperial Palace for people using transporters to get in?”

 

Ramara looked at him suspiciously, but was nudged into a response by Lissan, who gave her an encouraging nod.  _Good, at least one of them is on side._  “No one may beam in without permission.  It’s the Imperial Palace!” the Guard sputtered indignantly. 

 

Protocol, the most effective weapon in the universe.  Janeway should have thought about using it against the Kazon, or the Borg.  “Other than a deep and meaningful ‘thou shalt not’, are there any _actual_ security measures in place, say to stop people from just walking or beaming in?  Dampening fields, intruder alert systems, anything?” 

 

Ramara shook her head.  “The Imperial Guard protects the Emperor,” she said proudly, putting her hand on her dagger.  Tom opened his mouth to unleash a string of sarcastic remarks about the reliability of individual members of that self-same Imperial Guard, but decided to let it go in the spirit of future co-operation. 

 

“Anything else I need to know?” 

 

Ramara pointed at his phaser.  “That is useless inside the Palace.” 

 

“How so?”  Tom tried to rack his brain about technology that might counteract or dampen phaser fire, when Ramara explained.  “It is unlawful to discharge a firearm or energy weapon inside the Palace.  That is why the Guard carries knives.” 

 

This time, Tom could not resist the urge to roll his eyes.  _Obviously,_ a society that had come up with over twelve thousand rules on how to carry out revenge properly _would_ rely on regulations rather than physical security to keep the peace – how else would it be possible for anyone to get to their victim?  Little surprise then that a Changeling had chosen the place as a target, managed to infiltrate it so easily, and at such a high level.  What the Andorians needed was a bit of good, old-fashioned Starfleet discipline.  Maybe he should ask Starfleet to send them Admirals Owen Paris and Kathryn Janeway for a month, just to shake things up?

 

In the meantime, he would not be above taking advantage of the absence of proper security measures; it certainly made coming up with a battle strategy a hell of a lot easier than he had thought possible.

 

Tom turned to the two women to explain his plan, such as it was.  “Now here’s what I’ve been thinking.  We know that you have at least one friend in the Imperial Palace Office, Lissan -- Rahm Theraan, the guy who sent me to find you.  We don’t know to what extent his superiors may be involved in a plot against your family, but we do know that Rahm at least wants to help.  And I just so happen to have his exact coordinates in my tricorder.  Once we get close enough to Andor, we should be able to beam directly to his office, and then we can figure out a way forward from there, with his help.”

 

Lissan piped up, her voice soft but determined.  “Rahm’s office, the Office of the Chief of Staff, isn’t that far from my apartments.  There’ll be Guards there, too.  It should be safe.”

 

Ramara infused her reply with acid skepticism.  “And if he’s not there?  Or has undesirable company?  With no one left in the Flyer, who will beam us back out when things go south, _Starfleet_?” 

 

Tom grinned, reached under his console and emerged with his prize.  “Behold, the site-to-site transporter.  It will take the three of us, if we stick close together.  Return coordinates will be programmed in.  It’s a pretty powerful little unit, and given the pattern enhancers I’ve seen everywhere in the capital, it should get us right down to the first level.”

 

Ramara frowned.  “Where did you get that?  They’re illegal in Andoria.  No one on my home world has one.” 

 

Tom was starting to get a little fed up with her attitude, and this time did not hesitate to let his irritation show.  “You gonna arrest me for having one of these, _Guard_?  But just in case they do let you keep your job after the stunt you pulled with the princess, let me just tell you that you’d be surprised at the things you find on Andor if you don’t hide your head in the webs of high intrigue on the ground floor.  I highly recommend that you stop wallowing in your inflated perceptions of how secure your fabulous _regulations_ make you, and instead take an incognito stroll around the upper levels some day.  It’ll be an eye opener.”

 

He turned his attention back to his sensors.  “Now, as for how to get close to the moon without being detected …  Lissan, come lend me a hand.  Pick us a nice, small planetoid, a piece of space rock big enough so we can hide behind it, but not so big that we can’t move it.”

 

Tom figured that engaging his imperial charge in her own rescue, in however small a manner, might be good for her in many ways.  Besides, if she wanted to go to the Academy, a little early practical exposure wouldn’t hurt.  Sure enough, Lissan beamed at him as she came over to the console. 

 

Tom called up a schematic of the objects looming before them on the view screen, displaying the weight, mass and composition of the jetsam of intergalactic dispersion that had found itself trapped in the Andorian Oort cloud.  “We want something about two-hundred meters in diameter, some base metals present, but not the main composition as that would make the thing too heavy.  An ice mantle would be a bonus.”

 

He sat back and observed Lissan as she scrunched up her face in eager concentration, antennae flattened into her silver hair.  It was clear to Tom Paris that the life of the young girl before him must have been a stifling combination of over-protectiveness and isolation; the horrendous expectations of a system of governance that valued genetics over personal suitability or desires; and a callous lack of exposure to the kind of practical knowledge that just might equip her to face the burden she was expected to shoulder.  At least the pressures Tom Paris had grown up with had – however ill-conceived – been intended to set him up for the life his father had envisioned for him; Lissan had evidently not even been given that much.  No wonder she’d done a runner.

 

“Here!” the object of his contemplation shouted excitedly.  “How’s this?”  Lissan’s silver fingernail tapped a slightly cylindrical object about fifty-thousand kilometers from the Flyer, with no immediate obstructions around – a criterion Tom had not specified and congratulated her for considering.  He surreptitiously re-checked the planetoid’s composition and, satisfied that it would be suitable for his purposes, smiled broadly and gave Lissan an approving pat on the back.  “Perfect.  Well done, princess!” he said, careful to deprive his voice of anything that could be even remotely construed as a patronizing tone.

 

Ramara, who had instinctively reached for her dagger when she observed the physical contact between Tom and her charge, relaxed a little and sank back into her by now customary brooding silence. 

 

Tom set up the Flyer’s tractor beam by reversing its polarization, to push rather than pull.  The idea, he explained to a fascinated princess and a mildly interested Imperial Guard, was to push the small asteroid ahead of the Flyer, making it appear like a rogue comet in whose dissolving hydrogen tail the Flyer could approach the moon of Andor (hopefully) undetected.  At least that was the theory.  Whether it would actually work would depend on a mixture of luck – including that the object, once moving, would emit enough of a tail to be convincing – and reliance on useless perimeter security.  Tom figured the fact that most Andorians lived underground, making amateur astronomers a conveniently rare breed, might just tip the balance in their favour.

 

Approaching the asteroid, Tom was struck by the keenness with which Lissan observed everything he did.  She watched him align the Flyer with the asteroid, engaging the reverse tractor beam, and following the small man-made comet towards Andor.  Then she observed eagerly, with a few well-placed questions, the process by which he sent the asteroid to burn up in the gas planet’s atmosphere and zoomed past the outer defence systems.  Tom took the Flyer into a low orbit, nestling right underneath an unmanned communications satellite that offered at least a short-term hiding spot. 

 

Lissan’s mind throughout seemed to be set on perpetual ‘record’.  The princess had obviously been starved of stimulation and exposure to different things and was desperately eager to make up for lost time; he figured that if she ever made it to the Academy she’d do just fine – regardless of her deprived and privileged background.  And maybe one day she might meet Miral, his own little girl, so like Lissan in her zest for knowledge, her delight in learning. 

 

Tom shook his head and his lips curved in a smile of quiet and grim determination.  Whatever it would take …

 

He set up the site-to-site transporter, using the coordinates Rahm Theraan had given him over a Vulcan coffee in the Ice Caves’ cafeteria.  Afterwards, he carefully erased them from his tricorder.  No need exposing the young bureaucrat to unnecessary questions should they be caught; having Rahm’s personal details recorded in a Starfleet-issue device would surely raise a few eyebrows.

 

Tom’s lip curled up a little when the previous entry on his tricorder flashed on – the changeling DNA he had obtained from Edora.  Was it really only a day and a half ago?  He shook his head in disbelief.

 

As he gripped Lissan and Ramara’s arms and the familiar tingling of the transporter touched his skin, the last thing he heard was Ramara’s voice, reminding him with an urgency he found surprisingly touching, “Remember not to fire your phaser inside the Palace, Tom.  If you do, your life is forfeit.”

 

…..

 

Captain William T. Riker would forever after count the three hours he spent making his way to the Imperial Palace as amongst his least favourite of all time.  And that included the time he spent trying to convince Q that he was not interested in joining the Continuum. 

 

Staying inconspicuous in a Starfleet uniform had its share of challenges, and Riker sought out crowds of exotically dressed outworlders for what camouflage they might offer as he moved down to the more populated boulevards.  In between, he found himself ducking into alleyways, shops and entranceways at the approach of official looking vehicles, all the while trying to divine a route based on his limited memory and a third-rate tourist map he had snatched from the back pocket of an unsuspecting Bolian.

 

Finally having reached the first level, Riker recognized the boulevard leading up to the Palace as one he and Tom had travelled en route to one of their more tedious appointments; at last his destination was now in visual range.  Deciding that the time for hiding had passed, he squared his shoulder and headed straight for the Palace entrance.  Two Imperial Guards stood impassively, demanding his business.

 

 _Security sure isn’t what it used to be,_ Riker marveled to himself, not for the first time.  He could have easily taken both guards out with his stolen phaser before they so much as touched their pretty daggers.  Tom had been right; this place was a mixture of show and complacency. 

 

“Captain William T. Riker, of the USS Enterprise.  Official Representative of the United Federation of Planets, in Andoria at the invitation of the Emperor.  I request an immediate meeting with the Imperial Palace Chief of Staff on a matter of utmost urgency.”

 

He strummed his fingers on his hip while one of the guards commed his superior, presumably located somewhere inside the palace and now checking the credentials of the presumptuous and slightly disheveled-looking human at the gate.  After an interminable ten or fifteen minutes during which Riker kept listening for the imaginary sounds of sirens and resisted the temptation to keep casting furtive glances over his shoulder, the door opened and a vaguely familiar-looking Andorian official gave him a nervous bow.

 

“Captain Riker, what an unexpected pleasure.  My name is Rahm Theraan; you may recall, we met at the Terran Ambassador’s luncheon.  Please come with me; the Chief of Staff is eager to make your acquaintance.  I see you have not brought Commander Paris with you?” 

 

Riker’s internal klaxons started blaring.  No one else on this benighted moon had given a tinker’s damn about Tom, until he had disappeared.  Clearly, his XO was still missing – did this sudden interest indicate the Palace office itself was involved in his own detention?  How would that square with Erdilev’s crowing about ‘changes’?

 

“No, the Commander is engaged elsewhere,” he said blandly.  “The Chief of Staff will have to do with just me.” 

 

“I see,” Theraan said, his antennae sinking a little.  Riker noted the Andorian’s apparent disappointment at his response with renewed interest.  Maybe he was being paranoid, and Tom’s little toast at the Ambassador’s lunch had simply made his XO popular with more people than he had thought.  Nonetheless, he followed Theraan with caution, taking note of possible escape routes as he went.

 

In the outer perimeter of the Palace Office, two Imperial Guards stood sentry, one on each side of a heavy, ornately carved wooden door, hands on daggers, eyes watchful.  Riker mentally catalogued their weapons, and noticed the reciprocal keenness and raised eyebrow with which one of them observed the phaser-shaped bulge under his tunic. 

 

A number of other doors, less ornate but equally heavy, lined the wall opposite to the guards.  Rahm bade Riker to take a seat among a group of couches and chairs off to the side, close to an open door that appeared to be his own office.  He directed a self-effacing secretary to offer the Captain a glass of water.  Finding himself rather parched after his trek to the Palace Riker gratefully accepted and, remembering Edora Thaar, smiled broadly at the woman and thanked her politely.

 

“Unfortunately, the Chief of Staff is expecting a guest for an important meeting at any moment,” Rahm said in a hushed voice, pointing at the heavy door behind which the Chief of Staff presumably held sway. 

 

Then, with a slight frown, he added, “The Emperor will even come here himself in a little while to join the meeting, I’m told.  This is highly unusual, you must understand.  Normally he would summon the Chief to his study, but I understand the circumstances are different this time.  Much has been happening in the Palace.  You may yet have the chance to tell him your business yourself.”

 

And so, sitting on an overstuffed couch opposite the office of the Chief of Staff of the Andorian Emperor, Will Riker had the perfect vantage point from which to observe the entry of Chancellor Erdon Erdilev, chains dangling around his neck. 

 

And to hear him say, with a smug and thoroughly insincere smile, “Well met, Captain Riker.  I had not expected the pleasure again so soon.  You have come to witness history, even if a day early.”


	13. Alliances Are Fragile Things

_“You don’t grab power.  You accumulate it, quietly, while nobody is looking.”_

_Grand Nagus Zek of Ferenginor_

 

 

With a speed and grace surprising for a man of his size, Will Riker rose from his seat in one fluid motion and pulled out his phaser.

 

“Captain, Captain, please recall where you are,” a soft, sibilant voice came from the heavy door, which had opened silently, as if the person behind it had sensed the little drama unfolding outside.  “Exchanging weapons fire in the Imperial Palace is a crime, punishable by death.  Regardless of the cause in which it is done.”

 

Erdilev’s two guards, who had reached for their daggers, lowered their hands slowly.  Riker turned to the speaker, phaser still at the ready, undeterred by what he had just heard. 

 

“And you are …?” he asked, unable to keep the challenge from his voice, even as he guessed at the answer.

 

“Karon Marlev, Chief of Staff to His Imperial Majesty Narov Shran, the Third of His Name.  You must be … Captain William Riker.  I have heard of you, and was told you would be coming to talk to me.”

 

So palace communications _did_ still work.  Riker breathed a sigh of relief and holstered the weapon he had stolen from Erdilev’s henchman.

 

“Yes.  To let you know that this man … the good Chancellor here, is planning to usurp the throne and overthrow the Emperor.  I trust that the palace has not been aware that my ship, the flagship of the Federation, has apparently been surrounded by Andorian vessels at his order, to keep it from interfering in his plans and to make it look as if we support them.”

 

Behind him, Riker heard a small gasp emanating from young Rahm Theraan and the secretary, to whom his disclosure was clearly news; the two guards fidgeted a little.  What was disturbing, though, was the utter lack of emotion on the face of Karon Marlev, the Emperor’s right hand.

 

”Indeed,” Marlev said, with a heavy sigh.  “But perhaps there are forces at play that you, dear Captain, as an Outworlder simply cannot understand.  _Generational_ forces.”

 

Now, Will Riker had never considered himself an expert at politics; in his fifteen years as Jean-Luc Picard’s Number One, he had been mostly content to take his cues from his formidable Captain.  But he had learned a great deal, studying at the side of the master, and it did not take him above a few seconds to determine the lay of the land here in the Palace. 

 

A soft but nasty curse escaped his lips.  _Of course_.  Erdilev could not have dispatched his fleet without the knowledge and support of someone inside the Palace.  Without the Emperor’s knowledge, yes; the man was probably too busy getting ready for the Great Event to busy himself with something as mundane as fleet movements.  But without the knowledge of the senior ranks within the Palace?  Probably not.  _I should have thought of that.  Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid._

 

Erdilev happily picked up the thread.  “And by _generational forces_ , the Chief means that the next generation of the Shran, that … that little girl is singularly unsuited for ruling over Andoria.  While we, the Erdilev, have been waiting for their turn these many years, and are ready.”  His hand toyed with one of the many chains on his chest.  “Very ready.  Fortunately, the Chief of Staff’s loyalty lies with the greater interest of the Andorian Empire, not the narrow concerns of a single clan.”

 

The Chief of Staff chimed in.  “And with the … unfortunate disappearance of the Imperial Princess, timed even more unfortunately right before the planned announcement of the succession, there is no better choice than to settle that succession upon the head of the family which has borne the Crown before, and has long been destined to do so again.  Really, there is no choice.”

 

Again, a shake of the head, this time accompanied by another heavy sigh.  _For a professional diplomat, the man’s repertoire of facial expressions is curiously limited_ , Riker found himself thinking rather inconsequentially.  “Fortunately, His Majesty agrees and will be here shortly to come to terms with the Chancellor.  To make him his lawful successor, and to plan tomorrow’s announcement.” 

 

Again, that world-weary sigh.  Only this time it was accompanied by the tingling of a transporter, seemingly right behind Riker.  The Captain turned around just in time to witness the antechamber becoming somewhat more crowded, with the sudden appearance of three figures, one rather familiar even out of uniform:  Tom Paris, at extremely close quarters with two Andorian women and holding a curious device in his hand, materialized right in front of Rahm Theraan’s desk.

 

…

 

And then a number of things happened at once, or at least, in disconcertingly rapid succession.

 

Tom Paris spat out a curse when he realized that he and his two companions had regained molecular cohesion in the middle of a major gathering, not, as he had expected, in a private office – a gathering that included the last person he wanted to see, in rather inconvenient proximity to the one featuring in his as yet nebulous rescue plans. 

 

But the venom contained in his utterance paled in comparison to the feral snarl that came from one of the two figures that had appeared with him.

 

“You!”  One of the Andorian women disengaged from Tom and hurled herself at the Chancellor, eyes blazing and dagger already drawn.  She was blocked by Marlev’s guards, who overpowered her after a brief and brutal struggle.  Even with the strength of two pitted against her, they barely managed to hold Ramara back, each pinning one of her arms under their own.  Her dagger clattered to the floor, and she kicked out in helpless frustration. 

 

After reassuring himself that his hide was safe for the moment, the Chancellor glared balefully first at Ramara and then at Tom, who Riker noted still held one arm protectively around a young girl, his other hand still holding the device.  It wasn’t anything the Captain recalled seeing before.  _Site-to-site transporter,_ it dawned on him suddenly.  And then – _Where the hell did he get that?_

 

Karon Marlev, for his part, took in the scene before him with keen eyes, which had widened slightly at the sight of Lissan, whom he had declared vanished mere minutes ago.  His face quickly became unreadable again, even as he considered the furiously struggling form of Ramara Erdilev who still seemed bent to get to her high-ranking clansman. 

 

With the overwhelmed secretary trying desperately to remain out of sight and inconspicuous behind her console, Rahm Theraan seemed to be the only person in the antechamber who saw any cause for celebration in the tableau before him.  His voice, jubilant and excited, cut through the sounds of Ramara’s frustrated grunts and scuffling feet.  “Lissan!  The Commander found you!”

 

With that uncontrovertible pronouncement, the Chancellor discovered his own voice, if not his wits.  “This must be an imposter,” he huffed at Marlev.  “A trick, played on us with Federation interference.  The Princess cannot possibly have returned.”

 

“No, you tried to make sure of that, did you not?”  Ramara, still struggling against the guards that restrained her, hissed out.  “You set me up.  Set _her_ up, to have us both killed.  So you could be appointed Successor tomorrow.”  Riker, comprehension dawning as pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, cast a questioning look at Tom, who shrugged and nodded, but surprisingly made no move for his phaser.

 

Karon Marlev for his part seemed to have made up his mind about something.  He turned to the Chancellor, the man he had only a few moments ago been prepared to present to his Emperor as the Successor of choice. 

 

“Is what she says true?” he said, ever so softly.

 

But even before Erdilev, looking at him in puzzled surprise, could frame his response to the question, the Imperial Chief of Staff gave a curt nod to the two guards holding the furious Ramara.  “Release her,” he ordered. 

 

The Chancellor cast his erstwhile ally a brief look of shock and sudden fearful comprehension.  As it turned out, it was all he had time for.

 

What followed would be forever burned into Tom Paris’ mind as an example of just how close he had come to dying without ever realizing it, and he thanked his lucky stars that Ramara Erdilev was fundamentally an honourable woman who would take revenge only on those who truly meant her harm.  Pulling Lissan towards him and burying her face against his chest so she would be spared what he knew would come, Tom watched in a mixture of horror and admiration as Ramara, unleashed by Marlov’s words, sprang at the Chancellor with the lethal grace of a snow cat. 

 

With a feral snarl, the lithe but surprisingly muscular guard grabbed Erdilev’s multiple chains with both hands and twisted them sharply, yanking the much heavier man off his feet and snapping his neck with an audible crack.  The Chancellor’s body slumped to the ground and Ramara stepped back, lowering her hands and spreading her fingers in seeming surrender, ready to accept whatever would happen next.  The two guards took up position beside her, but made no move to renew their former restraint of their colleague.

 

Will Riker, who only a few hours earlier had similarly dispatched an agent of the dead man’s imperial ambitions, let out a long breath.  With all his training and respect for the rule of law, he found himself disconcertingly unable to muster the requisite sense of moral outrage at the speed with which the most primitive form of justice of all had been meted out against Erdon Erdilev.

 

“And no weapon fired,” was all he could murmur to himself, even as he postponed for a later time a more thorough assessment of what he had just witnessed, and his own reaction to it.

 

…..

 

“Explain yourselves!” a voice, unmistakably used to issuing orders, barked into the suddenly silent room.  “And you, whoever you are, _unhand my daughter_!”

 

Karon Marlev, Rahm Theraan, the by now completely overwhelmed secretary and the Imperial Guards all bowed deeply.  Lissan breathed, “Father!” and stepped away from Tom to give a light curtsy to the Emperor of Andoria.

 

The man who had entered the room cast a long look at her.  There was no softening of his features as he took in the disheveled form of his only child, just a widening of the eyes and a brief tightening of his jaw.  “Most welcome, Lissan Narov,” he intoned the formal greeting.  “We are pleased to see that you have returned to Us.”  There was no warmth in his voice.

 

An involuntary shiver ran down Tom’s spine as he recalled the hardness in his own father’s face, that day he came forward with the truth after Caldik Prime.  _You are a disappointment, son._   Long after their reconciliation, and long after he and Owen Paris had learned to understand one another, the memory of that day still chilled Tom’s heart to the core.  He resisted the urge to put his arm back around the young princess’ now hunched shoulders in silent solidarity and consolation.  Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Rahm Theraan’s hands twitch as the young Andorian suppressed a similar impulse in the presence of his Emperor.

 

“Allow me, Your Majesty,” the sibilant voice of Karon Marlev cut into the silence left in the wake of the Emperor’s arrival.  “Based on this … woman’s actions,” he pointed at Ramara, “it would appear that the man you had chosen as a prospective successor following your daughter’s … disappearance had, in fact, engineered that disappearance, perhaps even planned her death.”  He turned to Ramara, who had remained standing, her head bowed in deference to her Emperor.  “Is that not so?”

 

She looked up.  “Yes, Your Majesty, it is true.  In the name of the Ushaan between my family and yours, I was tasked to encourage and support your daughter in her desire to … leave Andor for the duration of the succession ceremony.  I was not, however, told of any other plans.  Had I known that my clansman planned to take personal advantage of the Ushaan, and that he had engaged others to cause her death, I would have refused to take any part.  His actions have shamed all who carry the name of Erdilev.”  She bowed deeply.

 

“You see, Your Majesty, this was a plot entirely of the Chancellor’s making,” Marlev purred.  “You were right to suspect him of excessive ambition – before necessity forced you to conclude that the prosperity of Andoria depended on his family’s succession to your own.  Fortunately, that choice has now been averted and you can make new plans, plans more congenial to the continued reign of the Shran dynasty.”

 

The Emperor’s cold stare turned from Ramara to Riker and Tom, raising an eyebrow so as to inquire into their role in the drama that was playing itself out before him.

I do believe the late Chancellor had allies within the Palace – unless he had the authority on his own to dispatch your fleet to seize my ship.”  He cast a meaningful look at Marlev, who took an instinctive step back from Riker, and towards Tom Paris whose focus had remained on the young princess, now shedding silent tears of shame and despair.

 

 

And so it came as a profound surprise to Tom when the tricorder on his belt suddenly started an insistent buzz.  He instinctively reached for it with his free hand, and the two guards moved towards him with quick strides, daggers drawn, halted only by Lissan’s cry, “No – he saved my life!”

 

Spreading his fingers in an echo of Ramara’s earlier averting gesture, Tom glanced down at the flashing tricorder.  His eyes flew up at Karon Marlev, now standing only a few feet away from him.  In tricorder range.

 

Even hanging upside down on his belt, Tom could clearly see the tricorder’s small screen flashing two insistent words:  _DNA match._  

 

The last entry, the record of Edora Thaar’s little souvenir. 

 

Marlev’s eyes narrowed speculatively.  He too looked down at the tricorder, at the dawning realization on Tom Paris’ face, and came to a decision. 

 

Before Tom could utter a word, the features on the putative Chief of Staff briefly seemed to lose containment as he whipped out a concealed phaser.  And, in defiance of centuries of Andorian protocol, the metamorph who had likely replaced any number of doubtlessly more reliable senior officials in his carefully orchestrated approach to the centre of Andorian power, pointed the weapon at the Emperor.

 

“If I cannot take Andoria then let her fall -- as my people have fallen to the Federation!” he snarled dramatically. 

 

And might have fired, but for a sudden, distracting shout.

 

“Hey, Changeling – catch!” 

 

Tom Paris’ light tenor voice rang out loud and clear as he threw the site-to-site transporter, still in his hand, at the man before him.  Marlev instinctively reached out – whether to catch the device or to deflect it, those watching would never know, and in the end it did not matter.  The phaser discharged harmlessly into the ceiling as the Changeling shimmered out of existence before their very eyes.

 

Riker found his voice first.  “That was … timely,” he said, nodding his approval.  “Nicely done, Tom.”  _And again, no weapon fired._ At least not by a Starfleet officer.

 

Lissan gave a squeal of relief and ran over to her father, all differences momentarily forgotten.  The Emperor squeezed her shoulder in close approximation of a paternal gesture and gave Tom a calculating stare. 

 

“We thank you,” he said in a measured tone that held little warmth.  Then, more sharply, “Please, enlighten Us.”

 

“Your Chief of Staff apparently was a Changeling,” Riker supplied, theorizing as he went.  “Or rather, probably was replaced by a Changeling at some point.  We have information that he may also have impersonated the previous Chancellor.  I believe you were aware that there was a suggestion _he_ was the Changeling.” 

 

A quick look at the Emperor confirmed that this last allegation was not news to him, however distorted the circumstances under which it might have been reported to him.  _What the secretary knew …_

“My guess is that he made it look as if he had been killed in that particular incarnation and assumed your Chief of Staff’s identity at the time, leaving some of his tissue behind in the process, to lend authenticity to the story of the supposed Chancellor’s death.  You may want to have some Federation forensic specialists look into that matter for confirmation.  I do assume that Marlev … the Changeling was using … his … replacement, Erdilev, to get to the Throne.”

 

Riker paused for a moment, thinking matters through while Tom Paris nodded his affirmation, content for the moment to let his Captain sort through the politics.  “Replacing you directly, Your Majesty, might have been too risky as you are so very well-known, and” – he nodded towards Lissan – “have a child who would quite possibly have noticed the change. Deploying Chancellor Erdilev’s own ambitions against him must have been … useful.  Not to mention easy, based on my own experience with the man.”

 

Tom intervened.  “The Changeling must have been delighted that Erdilev was able to engineer Lissan’s disappearance under the guise of the ushaan, without any direct trace to himself as Marlev.  And once the Good Chancellor was established in the line of succession, he would doubtless have done away with Erdilev and replaced him with himself in due course.”

 

Riker took the thread back up.  “I assume that the siege of my ship was authorized by … Marlev in your name, Your Majesty, to ensure that the Federation would not interfere in the coup he and Erdilev had planned.  The Chancellor said something to me ”about our presence here convincing the people of Andoria of his legitimacy.” 

 

His voice became a shade more forceful.  “I trust that siege will now be lifted?” 

 

The Emperor nodded.  “I knew nothing of a siege.  See to it that it ends.”  The last was directed at the only surviving Andorian official in the vicinity, Rahm Theraan, who, once the shock of having his existence acknowledged by his Monarch wore off, immediately bustled over to the console on his desk. 

 

Narov Shran glanced back at Tom Paris, his studiedly imperious demeanour unable to hide his curiosity now.  “Enlighten Us again.  Where have you sent the imposter?”

 

Tom looked at him blandly.  “To the last coordinates, the place we came from.  I didn’t really have time to think about and enter a new destination.”

 

“You sent him to the Flyer?”  Riker gasped in disbelief.  “But …”

 

“No, not exactly,” Tom said, no longer able to conceal the smug grin that was slowly spreading across his face.  “I also didn’t have time to enter the necessary orbital corrections.  He went to the precise position where the Flyer _was_ when we transported here.”  He added, pensively, “Too bad about my little gadget though.  That was _not_ cheap.  Do you think, Will, that Starfleet will let me file an expense claim for it?”

 

The Emperor was still non-plussed, and clearly not interested in administrative details.  “I do not understand.  So where is the Changeling now, exactly?”

 

Tom Paris smiled.  “Space.  The final frontier.”

 

…..

 

The Emperor swallowed, then nodded curtly.  “That is …  quite satisfactory.  We thank you again.”

 

His eyes fell on Ramara, the last – if the least willing -- of the primary conspirators remaining in the room.  Aware of her monarch’s scrutiny, the guard fell to her knees; Tom recognized the posture as the same she had assumed before Lissan on the Flyer.

 

“Your Imperial Majesty, your humble servant begs your forgiveness.  I was misled by my clansman.  He atoned for his betrayal with his life, under the laws of Ushaan, and at my hand.  At no time did I intend for harm to befall your daughter, nor has harm befallen her in my care.”  She placed her hands on the ground before her, her fingers touching the Emperor’s feet, and lowered her forehead to the ground.

 

The room fell silent as Rahm Theraan and the remaining guards held their breath, and the Emperor contemplated his prostrate subject.  Riker noted the sudden deep furrow of concern on his XO’s brow; the realization dawned on him a split second later:  The Andorian woman was asking for the Emperor’s mercy.

 

The Emperor looked briefly at his young daughter, standing alone and shivering uncontrollably now with a delayed reaction to the traumatic events she had just witnessed, and waved his hand at Rahm.  “Take Lissan to her chambers, to rest,” he ordered coolly, but with a tone in his voice that could almost be considered gentle. 

 

Lissan raised a hand in protest, looked to Tom as if for confirmation.  He gave her a short, encouraging nod, smiling wanly.  Whatever would happen in this room next as Ramara awaited the Emperor’s pleasure was not something the young princess needed to witness.  Rahm gently touched Lissan’s elbow and led her out of the room, down the long hallway, towards the safety and serenity of her own apartments.  Silence descended as their footfall receded.

 

And then Narov Shran, Emperor of Andoria, the Third of his Name, pointed at one of his guards and spoke a single word – hoarsely, contemptuously. 

 

There would be no mercy.  Not today.

 

“Ushaan.”

 

Before either Tom or Riker could move, both guards drew their daggers.  One placed himself between the two Starfleet officers and the Emperor and his motionless supplicant; the other, face impassive, plunged his weapon in one fluid motion squarely between Ramara Erdilev’s shoulder blades.

 

Riker grabbed Tom’s arm to still him as the latter snarled a curse and instinctively lunged forward, the dagger trained on him and the Captain momentarily forgotten.  “Hold it, Tom,” he ordered in a low but sharp command voice that somehow managed to penetrate his First Officer’s consciousness.  Tom cast him a look halfway between despair and hatred, but obeyed, fist clenching; what else was there to do?

 

The deed done, the Emperor stepped away carelessly from the still twitching form of the former Guard, barely bothering to avoid stepping on the fingers that still touched his shoes.  He gave the two silent Starfleet officers a cool, calculating look. 

 

“We will receive you in three hours’ time in Our Imperial Office, to express Our gratitude in more fitting circumstances.  See to it that the meeting is arranged,” he ordered the still-shaking and terrified secretary, who had spent the entire time cowering behind her console in the hope that she might become invisible.  He swept out of the room without another look back, the two guards hard on his heels.

 

Tom fell to his knees beside Ramara, who was lying face forward on the floor, her colleague’s dagger protruding from her back where a dark blue stain was spreading quickly.  The medic in him knew that the wound she had received was a fatal one; even with access to an emergency medkit there was nothing he could have done.  He gently pulled the dagger from her back and turned her over, cradling her head in his lap, unconsciously stroking her hair.

 

Ramara’s eyes fluttered open and she smiled wanly as she saw Tom’s face so close to hers.  “No more maybes,” she whispered, and died.

 

Still on his knees, Tom Paris’ hand closed around the dagger she must have known would come for her.  Barely aware of his Captain’s hand coming to rest forcefully on his shoulder, he closed his eyes tightly to stem a rising tide of hot, liquid rage.


	14. Know When To Hold ‘Em

_“If you have an important point to make, don't try to be subtle or clever.  Use a pile driver.  Hit the point once.  Then come back and hit it again.  Then hit it a third time - a tremendous whack.”_

_Winston Churchill_

 

Tom walked up the corridor of the Imperial Guesthouse to his Captain’s once and current quarters, mask of studied indifference firmly in pace, grimly determined not to let his lingering disgust and anger show.  He noted with approval the Starfleet security officers posted outside Riker’s door, hands on their phasers, and gave a brief nod to Mike Ayala as he pressed the entry panel. 

 

Contact with the ship, once reinstated, had resulted in reinforcements being sent immediately; the security detail had arrived an hour previously.

 

“Come,” Riker’s voice sounded from within.

 

“I note we’ve acquired some shadows.  Guess we won’t be travelling to these … diplomatic gatherings by ourselves again anytime soon?”  Tom asked as he watched Riker pin the fourth pip to his collar.  The Captain glared at him.  “Smartass,” he said, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. 

 

The sooner they could put this place and its intrigues, petty feuds and highly malleable approach to justice and ethical norms behind them the better, as far as Riker was concerned.  Riker had found to his surprise that he was not bothered half as much by the fact that he himself had killed a man in order to escape, as he had been by the cold-blooded murder of the unknown Andorian guard Tom had brought with him into the Palace.  Going to see the man who had ordered her death just a few short hours ago was not something he was looking forward to.

 

Riker looked up at Tom in his neat uniform -- three pips, Distinguished Flying Cross pinned discreetly to the outside collar, turtleneck covering up the mark of Tom’s conviction that he had been shocked to see there earlier in the day.  “You clean up nice, Commander” he said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

 

Then he sobered a little.  “It’s dress uniform tomorrow night, remember.  May want to have Beverly look at that … neck of yours and fix it up when she comes down.”  At Tom’s uncomprehending look, he elaborated, gently.  “No turtleneck.”

 

“Ah.”  Tom nodded.  Yes, the mark of Auckland would rather stand out at a gathering of the Federation’s high and mighty, wouldn’t it just _._ Tough shit, he thought vindictively.  But the Captain deserved a better response, and the truth was a good place to start. 

 

“You know, Will, I’ve actually been thinking of keeping it out there for a while.  There are a few things … that I think I might want to have a closer look at, maybe talk to Deanna about.  Things I’ve been covering up from myself, that almost derailed me out there for a while.  Not a good feeling.  And I figure, having the mark there might just help me with that.” 

 

And before the sympathetic comprehension he saw dawning in Riker’s eyes could resolve into a discussion he wasn’t quite ready to have yet -- or at least not with his Captain -- Tom added, perhaps just a little too brightly,  “But don’t worry, _sir_.  The turtleneck _should_ keep most of the crew from freaking out.  And if they do get a good look at the thing, I have it on excellent authority that former criminals with visible tattoos don’t make half bad first officers.”

 

Riker gave him a long thoughtful look, one that he permitted to dissolve into a wolfish grin -- his first sincere one in nearly three days.  “That they don’t, Paris.  That they don’t.  Now let’s go and meet with his Imperial Majesty for the Official ‘Thank You’.  And do try not to kill him, will you.”

 

…..

 

Narov Shran, Emperor of Andoria, Supreme Commander of the Andorian Defense Force, Defender of the Realm, Ruler of the Underground Caves and Lord of the Eternal Ice, stared at the two humans before him with visible resentment.  His antennae were pointing straight up in an uncommon display of self-control, but his face was pinched. 

 

Notwithstanding the fact that he had arranged this meeting himself, it was clear that he would much rather be somewhere else, or be having it with someone else.  His sour mood was reflected in the grim expression of the four Imperial Guards, who were positioned one in each corner of the Emperor’s luxuriously equipped private study.  None of the guards were familiar to the two Starfleet officers, and they both wondered privately what might have become of those who had witnessed the events of the day before.

 

“We understand that We have Commander Paris to thank for the life and safe return of Our daughter.”  The words left the Emperor’s mouth like a cloud of frost, a statement, not something he actually wished to hear confirmed.

 

 _And for saving your sorry ass from public humiliation and possibly worse,_ Tom thought spitefully.  But he remained silent, blue eyes shooting phaser fire at the man who had ordered the death of an honourable woman for no other reason than petty revenge.  Whatever Ramara had done, she had done because she was a product of the very society and the twisted code of honour that this man himself claimed to represent.  What right did he have to judge her, let alone preside over her execution?

 

Riker, sensing that his Number One was not about to respond lest he say things he might regret, took the floor instead.  “Commander Paris was so fortunate as to have been in the right place at the right time, Your Imperial Majesty.  On more than one occasion.”

 

“Of course it is … something of a mystery how he _found_ that right place, and the right time, isn’t it, Captain?”  The implication was ugly and unsubtle – Starfleet must have been involved in the conspiracy somehow.  Riker’s eyes narrowed.  The man knew better; why try to pretend the help he had received was part of Erdilev’s or the Changeling’s plots?

 

“Well, be that as it may, We have ordered Our officials to ensure that the Commander will be made the recipient the Grand Order of the Ice at tonight’s event as a token of Our appreciation.  A precedent.  We do not normally so reward outworlders, let alone persons with … marks like the one I understand the good Commander bears.  But We will overlook these things, in Our deep and sincere gratitude.”

 

Riker could practically hear Tom Paris snarl in his mind, _Don’t put yourself out on my account, asshole,_ as the Emperor gave a supercilious smile and inclined his head in what could only be described as a dismissal.  It was clear from Narov Shran’s body language that he could not wait to see the last of his inconvenient guests.

“Captain, Commander, We are grateful for your … assistance in resolving Our internal difficulties and know we can rely upon your utmost discretion.  We will welcome your presence tonight to stand witness to the glory of Andoria’s future.”    
   
Riker rose from his seat, as did Tom.  But unlike his Captain, the latter made no move to turn and leave.  His hand went instead underneath his tunic, feeling the outline of what was resting in the waistband of his trousers.    
   
The Emperor spoke again, his voice now carrying a tone of impatience and eagerness.  “We trust that is all?  In that case, you may depart.”

When he realized Tom was not following him, Riker stopped in his tracks and turned back -- just in time to hear his First Officer take in a deep breath and say, ever so softly, “No, _your Majesty_ , that is not all.”

With that, and before Riker or the guards could stop him, Tom took three quick strides up to the carved desk and whipped what looked like a blood-stained dagger out from underneath his tunic.  He plunged the instrument into the top of the desk in front of the shocked Emperor and, with a clear voice that echoed from the walls of the marble chamber, snarled three words.

“I claim Ushaan-al-Shaar!”  
   
Riker gasped, expecting the Andorian guards to lunge for Tom, but to his astonishment not one of them did.  Instead, all four put their hands on their ceremonial daggers and stood at attention, eyes keenly fastened on the tableau before them.  Almost unanimously, they intoned, loudly and formally, “We bear witness.”

The Emperor had turned a very pale shade of blue, and his eyes sprayed undisguised venom at Tom.  “You dare …” he hissed, but otherwise made no move.  
   
Undeterred, Tom Paris straightened up from the desk where the lethal-looking blade – which Riker now recognized as the one that had been buried in the Andorian guard’s back at the Emperor’s command the day before – was still quivering from the force of the impact with which he had driven it into the wood.  Tom took a couple of steps back again to stand close to his Captain.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”  Riker whispered angrily, in what he hoped was a voice low enough not to be overheard; while he was not at all pleased at this sudden turn of events, showing disunity among the Starfleet delegates at this juncture could only spell more problems than Tom’s unilateral action had probably already caused.  And despite his indignation at being side-swiped, he had to admit to a certain degree of curiosity as to what his unpredictable XO was up to now.  Whatever it was, the Emperor probably had it coming, besides.  Steeling himself, he decided to let events unfold.    
   
Tom briefly turned to his Captain with an apologetic look in his eyes.  “Sorry, sir.  This must be personal,” he said, equally softly.  “I’m calling in a debt.  Federation Politics 101.  One of the footnotes I cut out.  I think I mentioned it.  And I _think_ I have Starfleet authorization.”  Let Nacheyev tell him that this was not what she had in mind when she cut him loose …  
   
He focused back on the Emperor, blue eyes now blazing with a clear challenge.

“I, Thomas Eugene Paris, assert Ushaan-al-Shaar against Narov Shran, Emperor of Andoria,” Tom repeated, loudly and clearly, formally staking his claim.  

 

“ _One_.  Your daughter’s life.   _Two._ Her safe return.   _Three._ The continued reign of the Shran dynasty.   _Four_.  The safety of Andoria from usurpation by a member of an alien race.   _Five._ Your own life.”  
   
The four guards fidgeted slightly at the apparent preposterousness of the list, but their hands remained at their sides, on the ceremonial daggers.  If the Challenged could dispute the claim, he would.

 

In a slightly more coordinated chorus now, they each repeated, “We bear witness!”

The Emperor was audibly grinding his teeth now, and his antennae were doing an agitated dance.  Will Riker, who had taken an intense dislike to the man in the course of the two occasions of their acquaintance, found himself rather enjoying the spectacle, even as he realized he should probably consider disciplinary proceedings against his First Officer for single-handedly causing a diplomatic incident of potentially seismic proportions.    
   
But Tom had a point, the guy’s attitude to having his butt saved – both figuratively and otherwise -- left a lot to be desired.  Moreover, if Andorian society embraced the concept of the blood debt with the same attention to the rules as it did the concept of revenge, then the Emperor’s evident attempt to get rid of Tom before he could claim it was pure duplicity.  

 

And so William Thomas Riker decided to go along for the ride, especially as whatever Andorian ritual was involved did not seem to involve immediate bloodshed.  Hand on his phaser, he cast a carefully neutral look at Tom, then at the Emperor and repeated after the guards, “I too bear witness.”  Tom shot him a grateful flash of a smile.

The Emperor’s hands balled into fists, then opened again slowly.  Forcing each syllable from tight lips he spoke the words that honour demanded, lest the dagger before him be lawfully buried in his throat before five living witnesses.

“Ushaan-al-Shaar.  Speak your demands.”

 

One of the guards fidgeted a little as he understood that the outrageous demands would remain unchallenged.  And that testimony to their utterance outside this room would most probably spell his death.

Tom took a deep breath.  “ _One._  Your daughter requires an opportunity to learn about the Federation and other peoples, and to gain new perspectives that will benefit her future reign and Andoria itself.  She will enroll forthwith at Starfleet Academy, in a course of study to be consulted with Admiral Jean-Luc Picard.”     
   
The Emperor frowned, eyes flashing angrily, but nodded.  Clearly he had expected worse.  Riker raised an eyebrow.  Tom had told him about young Lissan’s dream; involving Picard was inspired, and should neatly serve to help to smooth her entry into the Academy.

  
Emboldened, Tom Paris continued.

 

“ _Two._ There is a young official in the office of the Imperial Palace, named Rahm Theraan.  You met him yesterday.  He is a loyal Andorian, capable of unorthodox strategic thinking and forward planning, and clearly fit for higher office.  Possibly that of Imperial Chief of Staff.  I hear there is a vacancy.”

 

Again, the Emperor nodded his acceptance. _  
_  
“ _Three._ If I know anything about the way things work around here, the members of Erdon Erdilev’s office will by now all have been placed under arrest and will presumably be collectively charged with treason.  You will order the release of one Edora Thraan, and allow her to retire with a full imperial pension.”  Tom reflected for a second, then added, forcefully, “ _And_ benefits.”

  
An uncomprehending glare, but a slow nod.  Riker found himself suppressing a snort.  
   
“ _Four._ The Andorian planetary defense force will be brought under the command and control of Starfleet, until such time as Starfleet determines otherwise.”    
   
That one bit, and hard.  The Emperor – who had by now had clearly allowed himself the luxury of believing he would get away with a litany of relatively inconsequential personnel requests, gritted his teeth.  Riker drew in a sharp breath.  This demand was tantamount to Andoria ceding a portion of its sovereignty.  Then again, its forces had not exactly covered themselves with glory during the Dominion War, in addition to allowing themselves to be used in an act of aggression against Starfleet and the Federation.  And the control exercised would belong to Starfleet, not the Federation Council.  He gave Tom an appraising look.  _Well played, Number One._

Another Imperial glare, and a very slow nod with tightened lips.  A hissing breath through gritted teeth.

“ _Five._ ”  Tom stepped forward and placed his hand on the still-bloody dagger.  He leaned in close enough that the Emperor could feel the heat of his much taller body; Nadov Shran’s antennae gave a brief twitch as he found himself staring up into eyes the colour and quality of Andor’s polar ice caps.

“In order to ensure the protection of your daughter, the blood feud between the Shran and the Erdilev clans will formally come to an end tonight.  To achieve this, Ramara Erdilev will be publicly honoured as a loyal Andorian who gave her life in the defence of the Imperial family.”

A final, tight nod.  The witnesses chorused their testimony again, with Riker a couple of seconds behind.

 

The Emperor rose to his feet, his colour heightened to a vivid ultramarine, his voice a hiss of resentment.  “I trust Starfleet will have no further _recommendations_ to Us for the conduct of Andoria’s internal affairs?” 

 

Tom briefly considered suggesting better training for the clearly inferior pilots of the Andorian planetary defence force, but decided not to push his luck.  Besides, they’d be Starfleet’s problem soon enough.  “No, that’s pretty much it for now,” he shrugged, deliberately dismissive. 

 

Riker decided to pick up the thread, now that the personal part of the debt collection exercise seemed to be over.  “We will notify Starfleet Headquarters to draw up the necessary agreements, and to arrange for the transition of command of the fleet,” the Captain said blandly. 

 

“Now that communications have been restored, that should not take long.  But since you have a major event to prepare, we will take our leave now.  We look forward to seeing Imperial protocol in all its splendor tonight.”

 

And with that, the two officers politely bowed themselves out of the room.

….

   
“That must have been some footnote,” Riker remarked conversationally as they left the Palace.  “You know, I agree with Sikorski.  You might just have gotten an A on that bloody paper of yours if you’d left it in.”  

 

Tom, who had been uncharacteristically silent as they walked, let out a long, slow breath.  “Yeah, well, I was what, nineteen?  Twenty?  The revenge thing seemed more … cool than the calling-in-debts bit.  Besides, Ushaan-al-Shaar is pretty rare; Andorians generally don’t like the part where they owe someone.”  
   
“And Emperors, it would seem, like it even less.  But that bit about the dagger …  Sheesh, you had me worried there for a moment, Paris.  I thought you were going to drive it into His Majesty’s throat.”  Riker stopped walking so he could glare at his XO more effectively.  

 

“Now, for greater clarity and just so we understand each other, don’t you _ever_ do anything like that again without at least warning me first, _Crewman Paris_.  I don’t need to remind you, do I, that the brig is a very cold and lonely place.”

Tom looked a bit sheepish.  “Don’t I know it.  Sorry, _sir_.  It won’t happen again.  I don’t often have a get-out-of-jail-free card handed to me by the Admiralty.”  He looked at Riker, eyes narrowed, through pale lashes.  “Truth?”

 

“Never anything but, besides I’m out of dares for the day.”

 

“If I’d told you what I was planning to do, would you have stopped me?”

 

“Truth?  Hell, no.  That was fun.  He deserved it.  In any event, I talked to your Captain Janeway at length before I made you my XO, so I knew _exactly_ what I was getting myself into, and prepared to cut you a little slack when you jammed that dagger down.  Maybe I’m a little nuts too, after fifteen years with Picard.  I tell you one thing though, Tom.  Next time you come up with some harebrained scheme that teeters between saving a planet and putting us into Official Shit in perpetuity, do talk to me first, hmm?”

 

Tom laughed, softly.  “Yes, sir.  I will.  That’s a promise.” 

  
…..

 

The face of Fleet Admiral Alynna Nacheyev on the comm screen had remained cool and impassive throughout Riker’s debrief, delivered from the now again functioning comms station in his Imperial Guest House accommodations.  When the Captain had finished, she nodded curtly.

 

“You will understand, of course, that the details of this mission will have to be handled with the utmost discretion, Captain?  Strict orders from the Council.  That goes particularly for you, Commander Paris.”  Tom had entered the room, and Nacheyev wasted no time letting him know that his presence in the background of the screen had been noticed.

 

Riker and Tom looked at one another.  Tom cleared his throat.  He had no issues with the more sordid and melodramatic aspects of his trip to Nardik never seeing the light of day, but he didn’t think somehow that it was _his_ reputation the Admiral was seeking to protect. 

 

“I can certainly see that the idea of Changelings still bent on infiltrating the highest levels of Federation governments might be …. disquieting to some,” he commented.

 

“Quite, Commander.  It will be reassuring to both of you, though, that I have requested discrete DNA tests of senior officials throughout the sector.  The sweep should be complete within a few weeks.”  Riker nodded with satisfaction.  “That’s very good news, sir,” he said.

 

“If I may, Admiral, a suggestion …?”  She raised a pale eyebrow in surprise, but inclined her head _yes_.  “You may want to invite the Federation Council to rethink their policy of making strategic decisions involving Starfleet interests based on representations by governments with a direct stake in the outcome.  Too much opportunity for Starfleet to be taken hostage to … err … local politics.”

 

Nacheyev considered him carefully, impassively, for a few moments through narrowed eyes.  “A good point,” she said simply.  Tom let out his breath.  Coming from someone like the Ice Queen, those three words might just qualify as a ringing endorsement; who knew.  In any event, he’d done what he could, and maybe next time someone called for back-up they might actually get some.

 

Nacheyev turned her pale eyes on Riker.  “So I gather, then, that the Andorian defence force will come under Starfleet command.  That is excellent news, and resolves a number of issues that have been of concern to us.  In this context, Captain, I have requested that all your senior officers attend the presentation ceremony tonight.  I believe it is important to register a strong Starfleet presence at … such a public event for Andoria.  Especially in light of the announcement the Emperor will be making about the new arrangements.” 

 

Tom’s heart gave a little skip.  B’Elanna would be coming to Andor?  Best news he’d had in _days_.  He couldn’t suppress an anticipatory grin.

 

Nacheyev, in turn, gave him one of her tight smiles that never quite seemed to reach her eyes. 

 

“One more thing.  Commander Paris – I will be entering a commendation on your record for your … inspired performance these last few days, in particular the results achieved with regard to the Andorian fleet.  It seems you have a natural instinct for diplomacy.”

 

“Me?  An instinct for diplomacy?  You gotta be kidding.  I mean, with all due respect, ma’am -- all I have an instinct for, if anything, is whose balls to squeeze, when, and how hard.” 

 

Riker suppressed a wince.  Nacheyev pursed her lips a little, her equanimity not shaken in the least. 

 

“Precisely, Commander.  That _is_ diplomacy, in a nutshell.  Nacheyev out.”

 

 


	15. Know When to Fold ‘Em

_"There are few ironclad rules of diplomacy, but to one there is no exception.  When an official reports that talks were useful, it can safely be concluded that nothing was accomplished.”_

_John Kenneth Galbraith_

Whoever had ransacked Tom’s and the Captain’s rooms after Riker’s arrest had dutifully returned their belongings, arranged slightly differently, but still all there.  Tom’s dress uniform had, moreover, been impeccably pressed by unseen hands.  Was someone trying to send him a message?  He weighed the tunic in his hands as he stared at his face in the mirror. 

 

_On second thought…_

 

“Oh, fuck ‘em,” he muttered darkly and threw the uniform back on the bed.  Nacheyev wanted a Starfleet presence, but she hadn’t said anything about uniforms, had she?  And wasn’t it Riker who had mentioned that diplomats could say a thousand words with the way they dressed?  Time to put his new-found, Nacheyev-approved ‘instincts’ to the test.

 

Tom headed to the refresher and pulled out his leathers and the white T-shirt, all nicely cleaned.  If B’Elanna was coming, he was sure she’d appreciate the pants.  He sniffed the pocket of the jacket; good, the singed smell from the phaser burn had come out in the ‘fresher.  Even if he was bent on making a diplomatic fashion statement, doing so with _Eau de Nausicaan_ up his nose all evening would probably have worn thin after a while.

 

Tom put his three Commander’s pips neatly on one side of the collar of the leather jacket, then slipped it on and carefully placed the little winged titanium cross of the DFC – which protocol expected him to wear on an occasion as formal as this -- precisely under the spot where the “0766” ended.  After all, he’d gotten the latter for flying too, albeit not for one of his more successful runs.  Variations on a theme, really, when you thought about it.

 

A final appraising look -- good.  There was still room for whatever medal the Andorians would insist on pinning on him tonight.  Hopefully it would be something shiny and not so small that it could be swallowed, so he could give it to Miral for that eclectic collection of what she considered toys. 

 

Tom Paris gave a satisfied smile and headed out to door to meet his Captain.

**…..**

The evening of the Introduction was, by all official reports, a ‘successful exercise of imperial outreach’ to Andoria’s closest allies. 

 

The acting Chancellor began the evening by requesting a minute of silence to acknowledge the untimely death, in a shuttle accident just outside of Andor’s orbit, of Chancellor Erdilev and the Imperial Chief of Staff.  An investigation was underway and making good progress.  He then made a number of routine announcements, of which few of the attending diplomatic corps took note.  These included certain staffing changes in the Imperial Office, and something about an obscure Imperial Guard – now sadly deceased -- having committed a vaguely defined act of heroism that had brought her family closer to the Imperial dynasty.

 

The awarding of the Imperial Order of the Ice to one Commander Thomas Eugene Paris, for (also vaguely defined) services to the Andorian Imperium did draw a few interested murmurs, and a bit of media attention.  The Paris name was, after all, a familiar one.  The fact that the recipient had turned up in something other than regulation Starfleet dress was noted by some of the more astute observers, including the Vulcan ambassador, although the leather look was widely ascribed to the personal eccentricities of a man who on his home planet was known for writing successful holovids about a heroic person sporting similar garb.  One of the journalists shooting holovids for _Society Tonight_ even predicted – erroneously, as it turned out -- that the daringly rakish tattoo sported by Starfleet’s handsome former Bad Boy might just catch on as a fashion accessory.

 

No one noticed that the honoree seemed far more intent on scanning the assembled crowd for someone than he was on showing appreciation for the uncommonly rare and high honour that was being bestowed upon him.  And since only Captain Riker noticed that his Number One had taken the crystal star off within minutes and stuck it into his pocket, it was him who wandered over to suggest discreetly that Tom should probably move it to the one that didn’t have a hole in it.

 

 

Her personal interest in the Academy was most timely, since his people’s deep and unfailing commitment to the Federation was, at the same time, finding its expression in a much closer future relationship between Starfleet and his own defense force.  Andoria and the Federation were inextricably joined, and he was proud to reassert that unity through a new defence cooperation agreement that was taking effect that very day.

 

The crowd applauded more than politely, albeit not so much to hail the defence cooperation announcement.  Truth was, Princess Lissan was rather pretty, and the Emperor’s popularity had been waning over the last few years.  Few things, it would appear, excited Andorian monarchists more than the prospect of regime change, even if it would be put off for a while.  In the meantime, Lissan’s dress would likely spark a new trend; too bad she would be seen mostly in uniform for the next few years.  For those inclined to political matters, speculation moved on to the prospects of the Acting Chancellor securing his position.

 

But then Princess Lissan herself strode up to the podium, just as soon as her father had vacated it.  She had not been expected to take the floor and her move had clearly not been foreseen by protocol; any number of uniformed Andorian officials were seen milling about, their antennae fluttering in the most agitated fashion.  Her father looked mildly alarmed, if not entirely displeased at the attention his daughter commanded.

 

Lissan began to speak, hesitatingly at first, but then with increasing forcefulness, about how she had doubted herself and her ability to fulfill her destiny, but how in the midst of danger and persecution a man with blue, blue eyes had reminded her of the need to find her own true path, a path that she hoped might eventually lead her into the hearts of the Andorian people. 

 

She blushed a very pretty navy as Tom’s eyes, now widening with panic, caught hers across the room; oblivious to his warning headshake, she gave a deep, tremulous sigh and barreled on.  Her love for her people, she confessed, was greater than any personal desires could ever be, a realization that had struck her after listening to an ancient Andorian folk tune.  Accordingly, she had been forced to part ways with the man whom she would always remember as her very first love, and a true Hero of Andoria.  She would henceforth devote all her energies to learning as much as she could at Starfleet Academy, hopefully for the benefit of all of Andoria.

 

“Amen,” Tom muttered when he heard the bit about ‘parting ways’.  While he felt mildly pleased that his little pep talk on board the Flyer seemed to have resonated fairly well, he could have done without the fullness of Lissan’s perspective on it. 

 

Where was B’Elanna?  Had she heard That Speech?  Maybe the Gods That Looked After Almost Fully Rehabilitated Ex-Cons would show mercy, and she had missed it … somehow? 

 

_Please._

 

He headed for the bar with lengthening strides, ignoring both the people who stared at him with calculation and renewed interest, and the numerous antennae waving in his direction from members of several of the four Andorian gender groups, but especially the females.  He considered, not for the first time since his arrival on Andor, whether he could programme the replicator to provide him with a pair of those dark, oval eye coverings apparently favoured by pilots in the 20th century.  What were they called?  Raybanners?  

 

Kahless, he needed a drink.  Or three.  A Starfleet uniform bounced up to him.  His heart leapt, then sank.  O’Reilly. 

 

“Man, that was some fancy flying you did there a couple of days ago, sir.  I was watching and …”  Tom held up his hand to still the pilot’s enthusiasm, as gratifying as it was that the man seemed to have finally found the courage to actually talk to him.  “Thanks, Marc, but have you seen my wife?  I thought all the senior officers were coming here.”

 

“She was on the second shuttle; I believe they got held up a bit, sir.  Something about the plasma manifolds being misaligned.  But, holy shit, sir, the way you got them to shoot their own ship in the … wait, is that the DFC?  I heard you got it but I’ve never seen one up close …” 

 

Tom rolled his eyes inwardly.  O’Reilly’s transition from petrified silence on the bridge to torrential adulation was as disconcerting as it was unexpected, not to mention embarrassing.  “Sorry, Marc.  If you want we can put together some training sims based on that little dogfight, assuming the Enterprise’s sensors recorded it.  But right now I need to find our Chief Engineer.  Assuming she has arrived yet.”

 

Tom turned on his heels, took his glass of not-half-bad Tallyrian riesling and, parting the chattering crowds with barely muttered and patently insincere apologies, continued his search for his wife, not certain now whether he should hope to find her, or not. 

 

But assuming she was here, as one of the tallest people in the room he _should_ be able to spot a dark-haired half-Klingon amid a sea of blue and white heads, no matter how short she was. 

 

Of course, as one of the tallest and un-bluest people in the room, _he_ was pretty easy to spot as well.

“So, _Commander,_ I hear you had a lot of _fun_ out there, on the wild frontier.” 

 

Tom almost let out a yelp of surprise at the voice coming from his left elbow.  He turned, the instinctively happy smile freezing on his face.  His wife was magnificent, a Klingon warrior on the prowl.  _Uh-oh._

 

B’Elanna’s voice had a distinctly feline quality to it, but it was most definitely not the husky purr Tom was sometimes able to coax out of her when getting her to succumb to the urge of doing naughty things in the hidden corners of public places.  No, this was a low, predatory growl, the rumbling that you might hear emanating from the belly of a tiger, about to pounce on its prey.

 

 _Not good._ She’d been in the room … long enough.

Searching his mate’s darkly flashing eyes for whatever message might best enable him to survive the next few minutes, but finding himself unable to get a purchase of any kind, Tom Paris decided to stall.

“Where’d you hear that?  The details of my … mission with the Flyer were supposed to be kept secret.”  
   
B’Elanna Torres pushed her husband into an alcove at the back of the hall, slowly but inexorably.  Tom offered no resistance, even as his beloved pinned him to the wall in the darkest corner, her breath hot in his face despite their difference in height.    
   
“I have my sources, oh ‘True Hero of Andoria’.” 

 

Riker.  _Bastard._ Spilled everything to Deanna, Nacheyev’s instructions be damned.  He’d seen the two of them talking to each other, across the room.  No doubt the Captain was counting on Deanna back-briefing his wife in turn, and post haste.  Probably Will’s way of getting back at him for that little improv scene in the Emperor’s study, but this was a _little_ personal no matter how much he might deserve a rap on the knuckles …

 

B’Elanna was fingering the leather of Tom’s jacket now, before allowing her hands to move down to his pants.  She hooked two fingers inside his belt and pulled him roughly towards her.

 

“What’s that torchy jazz song you like so much?  ‘Lady sings the Blues’?  Well, in case you missed it, there was a blue lady out there, singing, just now.  And not so quietly, I might add.  About _you_.” 

 

Her hands were now sliding up his shirt, nails raking his nipples through the fabric as they went.  “Nice outfit, by the way.  I _do_ see her point.”  
   
Stalling having failed miserably, Tom went for the next best thing.  Diversion.

“You wouldn’t believe what it was like out there, Bee.  It was like a cheap holovid of Earth’s Wild West, with a serious dose of action, melodrama _and_ some cool flying thrown in.  In fact, I’m thinking of calling my editor; I feel another low-brow holonovel coming on.  They’re about to come out with the last six Chapters of Captain Proton soon and Jenny … wants … me … to…”  

 

His voice trailed off as B’Elanna’s left hand wound itself through his short hair, slid down the back of his neck and clamped around it like a vise.

“A holovid, you say.  Uh-huh.”    
   
B’Elanna’s right hand trailed back down his chest, down and down, until it closed on her husband’s leather-clad crotch.  Tom gave a little gasp and swallowed hard, his eyes furtively glancing around the room where the clinking of glasses and the susurrations of small talk went on undisturbed.  

 

He briefly caught Deanna Troi’s eyes, sent her a pleading look; the empath smirked a little in his direction and very slowly, very deliberately, turned her back.

B’Elanna’s voice was a soft hiss now, and her grip on both parts of his anatomy tightened further.    
   
“You sure the safeties were on, _flyboy_?”

Finally, a question Thomas Eugene Paris could answer, unreservedly, without compromising Federation security or violating Starfleet orders, and without any hesitation whatsoever.  

 

Making absolutely no attempt to escape his wife’s iron hold on his most precious body parts, he instead leaned into her, widening his stance and moving his hips forward to give her better access.  He opened his eyes to hers so that she could look deep into his soul, and find there nothing but the truth. 

 

A little smile played on Tom’s lips as he whispered huskily into B’Elanna’s ear:  “You ought to know by now, _Mrs. Paris_ , that the only places where I like the colour blue is in my bath robe, your warp core and our daughter’s eyes.”    
   
And then he bent his head down and pressed his open mouth to hers.

Now there are several types of kisses:  There are those sweet, reassuring pecks and feathery touches of closed lips on skin that are shared among friends, or offered as a prelude to romance.  There are the initially shy explorations, becoming increasingly daring, where lips brush questioningly, then insistently -- someone’s tongue tracing the outline of the other’s mouth, requesting entrance for first time.  Then there are those deep, wet, lingering kisses shared by lovers in the hunger of pure passion; knowing, devouring, breathless, tumbling towards oblivion in a shared breath.

But none of these compare to the kiss of a Klingon female asserting her claim over her mate, nor do they compare to the raging fires that such a kiss ignites.  A hard brush of the female’s tongue across the male’s cheek is followed by a sinking of teeth into tender flesh; lips are possessed, ravaged mercilessly; then her tongue will probe his mouth, insistent and deep, pronouncing ownership and desire in equal measure.    
   
The outcome of such a kiss is always, always the same. 

 

A dozen or so meters away, a certain half-Betazoid counselor raised her eyebrows, and her black eyes widened perceptibly.  A smile played on her lips as she subtly but deftly maneuvered the conversation she had joined away from the alcove towards the middle of the shining hall, her eyes searching, with increasing urgency, for her _imzadi_.

And in that dark alcove in the Great Hall of the Andorian Imperial palace, slowly running her tongue first up the blue mark on her mate’s neck, then licking his blood off her lips as he pulled her roughly into the deep, all-concealing folds of a heavy velvet curtain, B’Elanna Torres started to purr.

 


End file.
